UC-NRLF 


. 


THE 


POEMS 


OF 


HENRY    TIMROD 


EDITED,    WITH    A    SKETCH    OF   THE    POET'S    LIFE, 


PAUL  II.  HAYNE. 


NEW  REVISED  EDITION. 


NEW    YORK: 

E.  J.  HALE   &   SON,  PUBLISHERS, 
MURRAY  STREET. 

1873. 


Entered  according  to  act  of  Congress,  In  the  year  1872,  Dy 
E.  J.  HALE  &  SON, 

in  the  Office  of  the  Librarian  of  Congress,  at  Washington. 


LANGE,  LITTLE   &  HILLMAN, 

PRINTERS,  ELECTROTYPERS  AND  STEREOTYI'KKS 

108  TO  114  WOOSTER  STREET,  N.  Y. 


S73 


TO  THE 

POET'S     WIFE     AND     SISTEK,* 

AND  TO  HIS, EARNEST  FRIENDS,  THE 

HON.     GEORGE     S.     BRYAN, 

OF  CHARLESTON,  8.   C., 
AND 

DOCTOR  J.  DICKSON  BRUNS, 

OF  NEW  ORLEANS, 
THIS     VOLUME     IS 


*  This  sister  died  soon  after  the  "  Dedication  "  was  penned.  The  life-long 
affection  between  the  Poet  and  herself  was  of  the  most  tender,  touching, 
and  beautiful  description.  They  sympathized  in  heart,  soul,  and  intellect. 
Their  names  must  always  be  associated  in  the  memory  of  gentle  and  appre 
ciative  spirits. 


M294G67 


CONTENTS. 


I'AGE 

Memoir  of  Henry  Timrod 7 

Dedication 71 

Katie 73 

Carolina 80 

A  Cry  to  Arms. , 83 

Serenade 85 

Why  Silent  ? 86 

Two  Portraits 87 

Charleston 97 

Ripley 99 

Ethnogenesis 100 

Christmas 104 

La  Belle  Juive  107 

An  Exotic 109 

The  Rosebuds Ill 

A  Mother's  Wail 112 

Our  Willie 114 

Carmen  Triumphale 118 

Address  at  the  Opening  of  Richmond  Theatre 121 

The  Cotton  Boll 125 

Spring 131 

The  Unknown  Dead 134 

The  Two  Armies 136 

A  Vision  of  Poesy 137 

The  Past 162 

Pneceptor  Amat 163 

Dreams .  166 


vi  CONTENTS. 

PAGE 

The  Problem . .   168 

The  Arctic  Voyager 172 

A  Year's  Courtship 173 

Dramatic  Fragment 176 

The  Summer  Bower 178 

A  Rhapsody  of  a  Southern  Winter  Night 180 

Flower  Life 184 

Youth  and  Manhood 186 

A  Summer  Shower 189 

Baby's  Age 

Hark  to  the  Shouting  Wind 

The  Messenger  Rose 192 

Too  Long;  0  Spirit  of  Storm  ! 193 

The  Lily  Confidante 194 

On  Pressing  Some  Flowers 196 

A  C&mmon  Thought 197 

Sonnets 197  to  203 

1866— Addressed  to  the  Old  Year 204 

Ode,  Sung  at  the  Decoration  of  Graves  of  Confederate  Dead  209 

Hymn,  Sung  at  a  Sacred  Concert 210 

The  Stream  is  Flowing  from  the  West 211 

Stanzas,  Written  in  Illustration  of  a  Tableau  Vivant.- 212 

Retirement 213 

Vox  et  Preterea  Nihil 215 

Hymn,  Sung  at  an  Anniversary  of  an  Orphan  Asylum 216 

To  a  Captive  Owl 217 

Love's  Logic 218 

Second  Love 220 

Hymn,  Sung  at  the  Consecration  of  Magnolia  Cemetery  . . .  221 

Lines  to  R.  L 221 

Madeline 223 

To  Whom  ? 227 

To  Thee 228 

Storm  and  Calm 229 

Sonnets. .  .  .230  to  232 


MEMOIE 


HENRY  TIMROD 


THE  name  and  writings  of  HENRY  TIMROD  have  been  long 
known  and  appreciated  at  the  South.  Nor  are  they  wholly 
unknown  at  the  North.  I  have  before  me  a  letter  from  the 
Quaker  poet,  WHITTIER,  in  which  he  warmly  commends  the 
poems  of  TIMROD  he  had  seen,  while  expressing  a  regret 
for  his  early  death. 

Frequently,  in  his  critical  essays,  RICHARD  HENRY  STOD- 
DARD  has  referred  to  TIMROD,  as  in  his  opinion  the  ablest 
poet  the  South  had  yet  produced — a  verdict  fully  sustained 
by  some  other  (Northern)  Avriters  of  high  position,  to  whose 
notice  the  poems  had  been  brought. 

These  facts  may  prove,  in  some  sort,  an  introduction  to 
the  present  volume,  so  far  as  the  Northern  public  is  con 
cerned.  They  may  win  for  it  a  candid  examination,  all  that 
is  necessary,  doubtless,  for  its  success. 

Meanwhile,  I  purpose  to  give  a  sketch  of  TIMROD'S  life, 
which,  though  comparatively  brief,  and  to  an  exceptional 
degree  uneventful,  is  still  of  interest,  as  throwing  much 
light  upon  the  character  of  his  verses,  and  the  development 
of  Ids  genius. 


8  MEMOIR   OF  HENRY  TIMROD. 

HENRY  TIMROD  was  born  in  Charleston,  S.  C.,  on  the  8th 
of  December,  1829.  He  was  the  son  of  WILLIAM  H.  TIM- 
ROD,  whose  father  (HENRY  TIMROD),  a  native  of  Germany, 
had  married  Miss  GRAHAM,  a  gifted  and  highly  educated 
lady  of  the  north  of  Ireland,  though  of  Scotch  descent,  and 
in  good,  if  not  affluent,  circumstances.  Mr.  TIMROD  had 
been  for  a  considerable  time  a  resident  in  this  country,  and 
was,  it  seems,  a  widower,  when  Miss  GRAHAM  came  to 
Carolina.  Sometime  in  1792,  their  only  son,  WILLIAM,  was 
born  on  a  plantation  not  far  from  Charleston. 

Upon  the  death  of  his  father,  which  occurred  unfortu 
nately  while  the  lad  was  quite  young,  his  mother  married 
again ;  a  step  by  which  the  family  means,  already  reduced 
by  the  exigencies  of  a  revolutionary  time,  were  still  further 
squandered. 

Nevertheless,  an  effort  was  made  by  the  mother  to  educate 
her  son  for  the  Bar.  It  was  frustrated  in  a  manner  at  once 
ludicrous  and  provoking.  At  the  age  of  eleven,  WILLIAM, 
then  at  school,  became  possessed  of  an  idea — a  brilliant, 
fascinating  conception — which  he  must  seize  the  first  oppor 
tunity  of  practically  testing.  To  the  boy's  fancy  the  most 
enviable  of  mortals  appeared  to  be,  not  a  king  or  a  conquer 
ing  soldier,  but  a  loolcbinder  ! 

Reasoning  from  his  narrow  premises,  he  concluded  that 
this  lucky  craftsman  must,  by  the  necessities  of  his  position, 
have  access  to  innumerable  volumes,  and  to  stores  of  untold 
learning.  In  order  to  realize  this  personally,  and  to  live 
thenceforth  in  a  beatified  atmosphere  of  Russia  leather,  he 
ran  away  from  school,  and  having  found  his  Phrenix — a 
complacent  bookbinder — placed  himself  deliberately  under 
his  tuition.  Of  course  the  intelligent  lad  must  soon  have 
perceived  how  his  dreams  of  the  trade  and  its  aesthetic 
facilities  had  deceived  him ;  but  whether  actuated  by  self- 


MEMOIR   OF  HENRY  TIMROD.  y 

will,  or  some  better  motive  not  revealed  to  others,  he  re 
sisted  both  his  mother's  entreaties  and  the  remonstrances  of 
friends,  refusing  utterly  to  return  to  his  orthodox  studies. 

Thus,  by  his  own  erratic  will,  the  father  of  the  poet  be 
came  a  mechanic — a  skilled  mechanic,  we  have  been  told — 
and  rather  proud  than  otherwise,  like  the  true  man  he  was, 
of  his  useful  and  honest  craft.* 

In  the  course  of  time,  WELLIAM  TIMROD,  self-educated, 
but  full  of  information,  especially  in  English  Mies  lettres, 
attracted  the  attention  of  his  fellow-citizens  by  his  brilliant 
talents.  The  wise  and  the  gifted  were  happy  to  associate 
with  him ;  and  by  the  simple  mastery  of  genius,  he  gained 
no  trifling  influence  among  the  highest  intellectual  and 
social  circles  of  a  city  noted  at  that  period  for  aristocratic 
exclusiveness.  Lawyers,  politicians,  editors,  litterateurs, 
and  gentlemen  of  scholarly  ease  and  culture,  would  gather 
about  his  place  of  work,  chiefly  for  the  delight  of  listening 
to  his  unpremeditated  and  eloquent  conversation.  He  seems 
indeed  to  have  been — longo  intervallo — a  provincial  Coleridge, 
holding  his  little  audiences  spell-bound  by  the  mingled 
audacity  and  originality  of  his  remarks. 

Nor  were  his  gifts  exclusively  conversational.  On  the 
contrary,  that  he  possessed  the  special  endowrments  of  a  poet, 
and  of  a  poet  of  no  mean  order,  some  of  the  songs  and  son 
nets  he  has  left  us  clearly  demonstrate. 


*  When  the  young  aspirant  after  knowledge  became  bound  to 
his  master,  he  found  that  he  had  neither  much  time  given  him 
in  the  day  to  read,  nor  light  at  night! — "I  have  heard  him  de 
clare,"  says  one  of  his  daughters,  "  that  he  used,  when  the  moon 
was  clear,  or  at  its  full,  to  climb  on  the  leads  of  the  house,  and 
there,  by  the  lunar  rays,  to  read  into  the  small  hours  of  the  night : 
Shakspeare  was,  at  that  time,  his  favorite  coinpanion." 


10  MEMOIR   OF  HKNRT  TIMROD. 

Of  these,  an  Ode  "To  TIME,"*  an  apostrophe  to  "THE 
MOCKING  BIRD,"  and  a  Sonnet  called  "Autumnal  Day  in 
Carolina,"  are  the  most  finished  and  striking.  I  will  quote 
them  here. 

TO   TIME— THE   OLD   TRAVELLER. 

I. 
"  They  slander  thee,  Old  Traveller, 

Who  say  that  thy  delight 
Is  to  scatter  ruin,  far  and  wide, 
In  thy  wantonness  of  might : 
For  not  a  leaf  that  falleth 

Before  thy  restless  wings, 
But  in  thy  flight,  thou  changest  it 
To  a  thousand  brighter  things. 

TI. 

"  Thou  passest  o'er  the  battle-field 

Where  the  dead  lie  stiff  and  stark, 
Where  naught  is  heard  save  the  vulture's  scream, 

And  the  gaunt  wolf's  famished  bark  ; 
But  thou  hast  caused  the  grain  to  spring 

From  the  blood-enriched  clay, 
And  the  waving  corn-tops  seem  to  dance 

To  the  rustic's  merry  lay. 

*  These  four  stanzas,  "  To  TIME,"  formed  a  portion,  origin'ally, 
of  a  much  longer  poem.  Oddly  enough,  they  occur  in  a  very  un 
ambitious  production,  viz.,  a  newspaper  "  Carrier's  Address," 

Apropos  of  the  verses,  Judge  Bryan,  in  a  private  letter  to  me, 
observes, 

"  As  one  pro->f  of  the  excellence  of  the  ode,  "  To  Time,"  let  me 
say  here  what  it  would  have  delighted  me  to  have  said  to  the 
author,  that  on  my  reciting  this  poem  to  Washington  Irving,  he 
exclaimed  with  fervor,  that  '  Tom  Moore  had  written  no  finer 
lyric.'" 


MEMOIR  OF  HENRY  TIM  ROD.  \\ 

ITI. 

"  Tiiou  hast  strewed  the  lordly  palace 

In  ruins  o'er  the  ground, 
And  the  dismal  screech  of  the  owl  is  heard 

Where  the  harp  was  wont  to  sound  ; 
But  the  self-same  spot  thou  coverest 

With  the  dwellings  of  the  poor, 
And  a  thousand  happy  hearts  enjoy 

What  one  usurped  before  I 


"  'Tis  true  thy  progress  layeth 

Full  many  a  loved  one  low, 
And  for  the  brave  and  beautiful 

Thou  hast  caused  our  tears  to  flow ; 
But  always  near  the  couch  of  death 

Nor  thou,  nor  we  can  stay, 
And  the  breath  of  thy  departing  icings, 

Dries  all  our  tears  away  !  " 


THE  MOCKING   BIRD. 

"  Nor  did  lack 

Sweet  music  to  the  magic  of  the  scene  : 
The  little  crimson-breasted  Nonpareil 
Was  there,  his  tiny  feet  scarce  bending  down 
The  silken  tendril  that  he  lighted  on 
To  pour  his  love-notes — and  in  russet  coat, 
Most  homely,  like  true  genius  bursting  forth 
In  spite  of  adverse  fortune — a  full  choir 
Within  himself — the  merry  Mock  Bird  sate, 
Filling  the  air  with  melody — and  at  times, 
In  the  raptferwr  of  his  sweetest  song, 


12  MEMOIR  OF  HENRY  TIMROD. 

His  quivering  form  would  spring  into  the  sky, 
In  spiral  circles,  as  if  he  would  catch 
New  powers  from  kindred  warblers  in  the  clouds, 
WJio  would  bend  down  to  greet  him  !  " 


AUTUMNAL  DAY  IN  CAROLINA. 

A   SONNET,  •"-^-f— 
"  Sleeps  the  soft  South,  nursing  its  delicate  breath 

To  fan  the  first  buds  of  the  early  spring, 
And  summer  sighing,  mourns  his  faded  wreath, 

Its  many-colored  glories  withering 
Beneath  the  kisses  of  the  new-waked  North, 

Who  yet  in  storms  approaches  not — but  smiles 
On  the  departing  season,  and  breathes  forth 

A  fragrance,  as  of  summer — till  at  whiles, 
All  that  is  sweetest  in  the  varying  year, 

Seems  softly  blent  in  one  delicious  hour, 
Waking  dim  visions  of  some  former  sphere, 

Where  sorrows — such  as  earth  owns — had  no  power 
To  veil  the  changeless  lustre  of  the  skies, 
And  mind  and  matter  formed  one  Paradise ! " 

*          ******          * 

Not  equal  in  poetical  merit  to  the  foregoing,  but  even 
more  interesting  because  of  their  subject,  are  the  lines  which 
follow.  They  are  mournfully  prophetic : 

TO  HARRY. 

"  Harry,  my  little  blue-eyed  boy, 

I  love  to  hear  thee  playing  near ; 
There's  music  in  thy  shouts  of  joy 
To  a  fond  father's  ear. 


MEMOIR  OF  HENRY  TIMROD.  13 

"  I  love  to  see  the  lines  of  niirtli 

Mantle  thy  cheek  and  forehead  fair, 
As  if  all  pleasures  of  the  earth 
Had  met  to  revel  there  ; 

"  For  gazing  on  thee,  do  I  sigh 

That  these  most  happy  hours  will  flee, 
And  thy  full  share  of  misery 
Must  fall  in  life  on  thee  ! 


"  There  is  no  lasting  grief  below, 

My  Harry  !  that  flows  not  from  guilt  ; 
Thou  can'st  not  read  my  meaning  now — 
In  after  times  thou  wilt. 

"  Thou'lt  read  it  when  the  churchyard  clay 

Shall  lie  upon  thy  father's  breast, 
And  he,  though  dead,  will  point  the  way 
Thou  shalt  be  always  blest. 

"  They'll  tell  thee  this  terrestrial  ball, 

To  man  for  his  enjoyment  given, 
Is  but  a  state  of  sinful  thrall 
To  keep  the  soul  from  heaven. 

"  My  boy  !  the  verdure-crowned  hills, 

The  vales  where  flowers  innumerous  blow, 
The  music  of  ten  thousand  rills 
Will  tell  thee,  'tis  not  so. ' 

"  God  is  no  tyrant  who  would  spread 
Unnumbered  dainties  to  the  eyes, 
Yet  teach  the  hungering  child  to  dread 
That  touching  them  he  dies ! 


14  MEMOIR  OF  HENRY  TIMROD. 

"  No  !  all  can  do  his  creatures  good, 

He  scatters  round  with  hand  profuse — 
The  only  precept  understood, 
'  Enjoy,  but  not  abuse  ! ' " 

In  the  Nullification  controversy  of  1832-3,  when  all  South 
Carolina  was  convulsed  as  with  the  throes  of  a  political  and 
moral  earthquake,  when,. in  Charleston  especially,  a  bitter 
ness  of  party  feeling  prevailed,  which  threatened  at  any 
moment  to  precipitate  revolution  and  bloodshed,  WILLIAM 
TIMROD  espoused  the  cause  of  the  Union  with  all  the  ardor 
and  enthusiasm  of  his  poet  soul. 

One  morning,  while  at  work  in  his  employer's  store,  the 
' '  divine  afflatus  "  came  suddenly  upon  him,  and  he  composed 
the  following  fiery  song,  which,  doubtless,  has  the  true 
lyric  ring,  although,  as  might  have  been  anticipated  under 
the  circumstances,  it  does  grave  injustice  to  the  motives  and 
character  of  the  leaders  of  Nullification.  In  the  midst  of 
composing  these  verses,  he  became,  we  are  told,  ' '  so  trans 
ported  with  the  passion  of  his  work,"  that  rushing  from  his 
own  small  room  in  the  rear,  he  fairly  shouted  out  the  lines  in 
his  employer's  ears!  Greatly  astonished  was  that  gentle 
man,  for  previous  to  this  outburst  Mr.  Timrod's  manner 
towards  him  had  been  marked  by  a  studied  reserve;  nor 
was  it  the  poet's  habit  to  declaim  his  rhymes,  even  among 
his  intimates. 

SONS  OF  THE  UNION! 


"  Sons  of  the  Union,  rise  ! 
Stand  ye  not  recreant  by,  and  see 
The  brightest  star  in  Freedom's  galaxy 
Flung  sullied  from  the  skies  I 


MEMOIR  OF  HENRY   TIMROD.  15 

ii. 

"  Hosts  of  the  martyred  brave  ! 
Bend  ye  not  your  pure  spirits  from  the  clouds, 
Indignant  at  the  darkness  that  enshrouds 
The  land  ye  died  to  save  ? 


"  Sons  of  the  brave  !  shall  ye, 
Basely  submissive,  crouch  to  faction's  slaves  ? 
No !  rather  lay  ye  down  in  glorious  graves : 
'Tis  easy  to  die  free  ! 

IV. 

"  And  who  the  foes  that  dare 
Flout  the  brave  banner  of  a  mighty  land, 
Which  floating  in  a  thousand  fields,  hath  fanned 
The  brow  of  victory  there  ? 


"  Laid  they  the  scheme  of  blood, 
Blasting  the  hope  of  ages  yet  to  come, 
Beneath  some  Temple's  consecrated  dome, 
With  tears  and  prayers  to  God  ? 


"  No !     In  the  wassail  hall, 

Draining  the  maddening  wine-cup,  while  the  cries 
Of  brutal  drunkenness  affront  the  skies, 
They  planned  their  country's  fall"! 

VII. 

"  God !  do  thy  high  decrees 
Doom  that  our  fathers'  blood  was  shed  in  vain, 
And  that  our  glorious  Union's  sacred  chain 
Be  snapped  by  foes  like  these  1 


]6  MEMOIR  OF  HENRY  TIMROD. 

VIII. 

"  Sons  of  the  Union,  rise  ! 
Stand  ye  not  recreant  by,  and  see 
The  highest  star  in  Freedom's  galaxy 
Flung  sullied  from  the  skies !  " 

The  intense  bitterness  of  tone  displayed  in  this  lyric,  will 
be  understood  and  partially  excused  by  those  who  reflect 
that  it  was,  in  truth,  a  campaign  production,  written  during 
the  heat  and  in  the  midst  of  the  recriminations  of  the  most 
savage  political  contest  this  country  had  known  previous  to 
the  year  1860. 

But  William  Timrod  was  not  a  mere  writer  of  miscellane 
ous  verses.  I  learn  from  the  best  authority  that  he  com 
posed  a  Drama  in  Five  Acts,  which  he  regarded,  as  par  excel 
lence,  the  literary  labor  of  his  life !  By  some  strange  fatality 
the  manuscript  of  this  play  was  lost — a  misfortune  which 
his  son  continually  and  bitterly  lamented. 

His  patriotism  and  popularity  with  the  chiefs  of  his  own 
party  procured,  after  a  time,  for  William  Timrod  an  honor 
able  position  in  the  Charleston  Custom  House.  How  long 
he  retained  this  office  I  have  had  no  means  of  ascertaining. 

In  1835  he  was  elected  to  the  command  of  the  German 
Fmileers,  an  ancient  and  distinguished  volunteer  corps  of 
Charleston,  composed  of  Germans  and  men  of  German  de 
scent,  and  marched  with  them  to  garrison  the  town  of  St. 
Augustine,  in  Florida,  against  the  attacks  of  the  Seminole 
Indians.  Exposure,  hardship,  and  protracted  labor,  brought 
on  a  disease  of  which,  about  two  years  after  his  return  to 
Charleston,  he  died. 

Thus  perished  in  his  prime  a  man  of  remarkable  mental 
vigor  and  versatility.  What  he  might  have  done  under 
fairer  auspices,  it  would  be  useless  to.  inquire.  His  name 


MEMOTE   OF  TTKNKY  TTMROD.  17 

henceforth  must  live  chiefly  in  the  reputation  of  his  son,  his 
"blue-eyed  Harry,"  of  whom  he  wrote  so  feelingly,  and  with 
such  prescient  insight. 

The  latter  obtained  his  primary  education  at  one  of  the 
best  schools  in  Charleston.  There  I  first  made  his  acquaint 
ance — an  acquaintance  which  similarity  of  tastes,  and  an 
equality  of  age,  soon  ripened  into  friendship.  My  seat  in 
the  school-room  being  next  to  his,  I  well  remember  the  ex 
ultation  with  which  he  showed  me,  one  morning,  his  earliest 
consecutive  attempt  at  verse-making. 

It  was  a  ballad  of  .stirring  adventures,  and  sanguinary 
catastrophe !  But  I  thought  it  perfect — wonderful — and  so, 
naturally,  did  he.  Our  "  down  East  "  schoolmaster,  however, 
(all  whose  duties  except  those  connected  with  penal  inflic 
tions,  were  left  to  his  ushers,  for  our  Principal  united  the 
morals  of  Pecksniff  with  the  learning  of  Squeers),  could 
boast  of  no  turn  for  sentiment,  and  having  remarked  us  hob 
nobbing,  meanly  assaulted  us  in  the  rear,  effectually  quench 
ing  for  the  time  all  assthetic  enthusiasm. 

An  early  teacher  of  Timrod,  who  really  knew  and  appre 
ciated  his  character  and  mind,  describes  him  when  a  boy,  as 
' '  modest  and  diffident,  with  a  nervous  utterance,  but  with 
melody  ever  in  his  heart  and  on  his  lips.  Though  always 
slow  of  speech,  he  was  yet,  like  Burns,  quick  to  learn.  The 
chariot  wheels  might  jar  in  the  gate  through  which  he  tried 
to  drive  his  winged  steeds,  but  the  horses  were  of  celestial 
temper,  and  the  car  of  purest  gold."/  fehy,  but  neither  me 
lancholy  nor  morose,  he  was  passionate,  impulsive,  eagerly 
ambitious,  with  a  thirst  for  knowledge  hard  to  satiate.^  But 
too  close  a  devotion  to  books  did  not  destroy  the  natural 
lightness  and  simplicity  of  youth.  /'He  mingled  freely  with 
his  comrades,  all  of  whom  respected,  while  some  dearly 
loved  him.  •  At  that  time  of  life  he  was  physically  active  and 


18  MEMOIR   OF  -HENRY  TIMROD. 

vigorous,  and  delighted  in  every  sort  of  rough  out-door 
sport ;  in  leaping,  running,  wrestling,  swimming,  and  even 
infighting.  More  than  once  I  have  known  him  to  engage  in 
a  desperate  affaire  cVhonneur,  the  issue  of  which  was  decided 
by  a  primitive-  species  of  science  that  would  have  disgusted 
the  orthodox  "ring." 

"  How  unspeakably,"  exclaims  one  of  his  associates, 
"  Thnrod  rejoiced  in  the  weekly  holiday,  with  its  long  ram 
bles  through  field  and  wood !  And  this  taste  strengthened 
with  his  growth.  '  The  sweet  security  of  streets, '  that  Elia 
loved,  had  no  charm  for  him. 

"Born  in  a  city,  pent  up  in  its  dusty  avenues,  he  longed 
for  the  untrammeled  freedom  of  the  country.  He  doted  upon 
its  waving  fields,  its  deep  blue  skies,  and  the  glory  of  the 
changing  seasons.  These  formed  his  special  delight,  be 
cause  in  them  he  instinctively  recognized  his  best  teachers. 
Face  to  face  with  Nature  he  had  no  fears,  no  misgivings ; 
always  a  beneficent  mother,  she  '  nursed  him  with  the  milk 
of  a  better  time, '  and  through  all  his  years  he  leaned  on  her 
breast  with  the  loving  trustfulness  of  a  little  child." 

When  about  sixteen  or  seventeen,  Timrod  was  prepared  to 
enter  college.  By  the  advice,  and  under  the  influence  of 
friends,  he  matriculated  at  the  University  of  Georgia.  There, 
his  vivid  intelligence  and  scholarly  ardor  soon  began  to  dis 
play  themselves. 

He  sought  to  enlarge  his  culture  and  refine  his  taste  by 
habitual  commerce  with  the  classics.  By  the  horror  and 
gloom  of  the  ^Eschylean  drama  he  appears  to  have  been 
revolted ;  but  "sad  Electra's  poet  "  charmed  him ;  he  revelled 
in  the  elegant  art  of  Virgil ;  and  of  the  graces  of  Horace  and 
Catullus  he  never  wearied. 

From  the  fountain  of  English  letters  he  quaffed  unceas 
ingly.  Nevertheless,  his  reading  was  more  exact  than  varied. 


MEMOIR  OF  HENRY  TIM  ROD.  19 

His  unerring  critical  tact  rejected  the  false  and  meretricious; 
but  for  authors  of  his  deliberate  choice,  his  affection  daily 
increased. 

There,  too,  at  the  University,  his  poetical  gifts  commenced 
to  "burgeon"  luxuriantly.  "A  large  part,"  suidhe,  laugh 
ing,  "of  my  leisure  at  college,  was  occupied  in  the  composi 
tion  of  love  verses,  frantic  or  tender.  Every  pretty  girl's 
face  I  met  acted  upon  me  like  an  inspiration !  I  fancied  inj-  - 
self  a  sublimated  Turk  (when  these  faces  were  reproduced 
in  day-dreams)  though  walking  an  ideal,  and  therefore  inno 
cent,  Harem  of  young  Beauties."  Some  of  the  cleverest  of 
these  love-songs  were  published  in  "The  Charleston  Eveniny 
News,"  over  a  fictitious  signature.  They  became,  locally,  quite 
popular,  and  in  one  instance,  to  the  author's  intense  delight, 
his  verses  were  set  to  music. 

Unluckily,  the  young  poet's  college  career  was  brought  to 
a  sudden  close,  in  part  by  temporary  ill  health,  and  yet  more 
perhaps,  by  the  "res  angusta  domi."  Forced  thus  to  leave 
his  alma  mater,  his  brow  unadorned  by  academic  honors — he 
left  her,  at  all  events,  possessed  of  valuable  stores  of  learning, 
and  with  an  intellect  unusually  well  drilled,  and  disciplined. 

And  now  the  battle  of  existence  opened  in  grim  earnest ; 
for  him  an  unending  struggle  wdth  evil  fates;  a  conflict  ill 
which,  overcome  again  and  again,  thrown  to  earth  as  fast  as 
he  struggled  up  therefrom,  he  found  but  few  kindly  hands 
to  help  him ;  and  yet  came  off  more  than  conqueror,  through 
untold  resources  of  his  liberal  nature. 

Timrod's  first  move  upon  returning  to  his  native  city,  was 
to  enter,  as  a  student,  the  office  of  that  distinguished  lawyer, 
James  L.  Petigru,  Esq.  Often  in  those  days,  he  frequented 
the  rooms  of  the  "Charleston  Mechanic's  Library  Associa 
tion,"  where  at  irregular  intervals  an  informal  debating  club 
of  young  men  was  in  the  habit  of  assembling. 


W  MEMOIR  OF  HENRY  TIMROD. 

Timrod  was  fond  of  argument,  but  as  an  extemporaneous 
speaker,  lie  had  not,  as  already  hinted,  inherited  his  father's 
facility  of  language  and  illustration.  Unless  excited  upon 
some  theme  of  special  moment,  he  hesitated,  stammered,  and 
was  continually  at  a  loss  for  words  to  embody  his  ideas; 
although  the  ideas  themselves  were  never  commonplace  or 
trivial. 

On  the  other  hand,  he  was  an  admirable  reader,  even  if  his 
style  did  sometimes  verge  upon  the  theatrical. 

I  can  see  him  now  as  he  appeared  in  his  early  manhood, 
repeating  in  a  deep,  musical  bass  voice,  his  favorite  "ode" 
on  "Intimations  of  Immortality  from  Recollections  of  early 
Childhood."  Short  of  stature,  but  broad-chested,  and  com 
pactly  formed,  with  his  superb  head  well  set  upon  shoulders, 
erect,  and  thrown  back  in  haughty  grace — his  gray  eyes 
flashing,  and  his  swarthy  face  one  glow  of  intense  emotion — 
it  was  impossible  to  listen  to  him  without  catching  some 
spark  of  his  fiery  enthusiasm. 

*~  In  1848-9,  having  assumed  the  nom  de  plume  of  "  AGLAUS,  "* 
he  commenced  a  series  of  contributions  to  the  ' '  The  Southern 
TAterary  Messenger, "  then  edited  by  that  kindly  and  accom 
plished  scholar,  John  R.  Thompson,  Esq.  His  genius  was 
gradually  maturing,  and  his  art-culture  with  it ! 

Let  any  one  who  can,  examine  the  back  numbers  of  "  The 
Messenger,"  from  1849  to  the  year  1853,  containing  as  they 
do,  the  best  of  our  author's  earlier  poems,  and  I  think  it  will 
be  acknowledged,  that  despite  some  superficial  marks  of  imi 
tation,  the  verses  display  both  individuality  and  power. 
One  piece  especially,  entitled  "  The  Past,"  was  so  full  of  a 
subdued  thoughtfulness  and  beauty,  that  after  having  been 
republished  by  scores  of  periodicals,  it  came  under  the  notice 


The  name  of  a  minor  pastoral  poet  of  Greece. 


MEMOIR  OF  HENR7  TIMROl).  21 

of  a  distinguished  Northern  gentleman,  himself  an  author, 
who,  corresponding  with  a  friend  in  Charleston,  expressed 
his  hearty  admiration  of  the  lines,  making  inquiry  at  the 
same  time  in  reference  to  the  poet,  and  his  circumstances. 
The  letter  was  shown  to  Tirnrod,  and  its  encouraging  effect 
was  greater  and  more  permanent,  than  could  be  understood 
by  any  person  not  gifted  in  some  degree  with  the  suscepti 
bility  of  genius. 

Every  poet,  in  the  morning  of  his  career  among  the  masters 
of  song  that  have  preceded  him,  is  apt  to  select  some  special 
object  of  his  imaginative  and  artistic  worship.  In  those 
days,  Timrod  looked  up  to  Wordsworth  as  his  poetical  guide 
and  exemplar.  With  a  constant  and  loving  earnestness,  he 
studied  his  works,  caught  their  spirit  of  simplicity  and  truth, 
and  thus  laid  the  foundation  of  a  style,  which,  however 
modified  by  after-studies  and  experience,  was  remarkable  to 
the  last  for  its  pure  Saxon  vigor,  its  terseness,  lucidity,  and 
unpretending  grace. 

Finding  the  law   distasteful,*   Timrod  threw   aside  his 


*  Alluding  to  this  period,  Judge  Bryan  says  (in  a  private  com 
munication),  "  Timrod  was  too  wholly  a  poet  to  keep  company 
long  with  so  relentless,  rugged,  and  exacting  a  mistress  as  the 
law!  As  a  curious  illustration  of  the  abstraction  and  reverie 
which  so  often  absorbed  the  poet,  he  told  me  that  Mr.  Petigru 
sent  him  on  one  occasion  to  take  a  message  to  a  certain  Factor  on 
the  Bay.  But  as  ill-luck  would  have  it,  when  he  had  gone  half 
way  he  found  he  had  forgotten,  if  indeed  he  ever  really  knew, 
the  message  entrusted  to  his  care.  What  was  to  be  done  ?  He 
could  only  return,  and,  with  as  bold  a  face  as  possible,  acknow 
ledged  his  misfortune. 

"  On  his  doing  so,  Mr.  Petigru  saluted  him,  very  much  excited, 
in  his  highest  squeaking  voice,  (  Why  Harry,  you  are  a  fool!' 
And,  added  our  poet  friend  to  me,  '  I  would  have  been  a  fool  to 


22  MEMOIR   OF  HENRY -TIMROD. 

Chitty  and  Blackstone,  and  determined  to  renew  his  classical 
studies,  so  as  to  make  himself  competent  as  a  College  Pro 
fessor  or  a  Tutor  in  families.  This  he  conscientiously  did, 
and  in  due  time,  no  Professorship  opening  to  him,  he  ac 
cepted  the  post  of  teacher  of  children  in  the  household  of 
a  Carolina  planter,  with  whom  he  remained  for  several  con 
secutive  seasons. 

Henceforth,  for  a  decade  at  least,  the  labors  of  a  tutor 
were  the  sole  means  upon  which  he  relied  for  subsistence. 
He  went  from  household  to  household,  faithfully  instructing 
the  youths  placed  under  him ;  longing  often,  no  doubt,  arid 
passionately  longing,  for  a  different  field  of  toil  or  action ; 
yet  not  ungrateful  for  the  leisure  hours  allowed  him,  in 
which  he  could  cultivate  his  own  mind,  and  exercise  his  im 
agination  in  writing. 

In  this  narrow  round  of  simple  duties  and  pleasures,  his 
youth  was  spent.  At  times  there  came  to  him  from  the  outer 
world  sounds  which  stirred  his  deeper  heart,  and  quickened 
his  pulse  into  momentary  unison  with  that  feverish  life  that 
he  felt  was  burning  beyond  him.  But  he  repressed  the  de 
sire  which  even  the  most  languid  must  feel  at  intervals,  to 
be  of  the  wTorld,  doers  as  well  as  thinkers,  and  travelled 
along  life's  common  way,  conscious  only  of  his  own  pure 
aims ;  and,  perhaps,  somewhat  dimly  conscious  as  yet  of  his 
extraordinary  powers. 

Whenever  in  spring  or  winter  the  holiday  season  came 
round,  Timrod,  forgetting  his  cares,  would  joyfully  rush 
down  to  Charleston  to  be  welcomed  by  a  small  coterie  of 
frjends  with  demonstrative  cordiality. 

Among  these  was  William  Gilmore  Simms,  who  delighted 

Mr.  Petigru  to  the  end  of  my  days,  even  had  I  revealed  in  after- 
lire  the  genius  of  a  Milton  or  a  Shakspeare  !  '  " 


MEMOIR  OF  HENRY  TIMROD.  23 

to  gather  round  him  the  younger  literary  men  of  his  acquaint 
ance,  and  to  discuss  with  them  the  thousand  and  one  topics 
connected  with  art  and  letters^  Many  and  jovial  were  the 
"little  suppers"  of  which  we  partook  at  his  pleasant  town 
residence,  none  of  the  guests,  perhaps,  enjoying  themselves 
as  vividly  as  Timrod,  whose  excitable  temperament,  and 
keenly  social  proclivities,  made  his  whole  heart  expand  in 
the  companionship  of  those  he  loved  and  trusted. 

It  was  at  one  of  these  petits  soupers  that  the  idea  originated 
of  starting  a  Monthly  Magazine  in  Charleston,  which  might 
serve  as  an  exponent  of  Southern  talent  and  culture.  The 
idea  speedily  assumed  a  definite  form.  An  enterprising, 
intelligent,  and  popular  bookseller  then  doing  business  in 
the  city,  Mr.  John  Russell,  was  induced  to  take  the  practical 
management  of  the  work,  which,  in  honor  of  its  founder, 
was  called  "RusseWs  Magazine."  The  editorship  devolved 
upon  the  present  writer,  supported  by  a  small  corps  of  clever, 
but  by  no  means  very  regular  collator ateurs. 

On  the  first  day  of  April  (ominous  coincidence !),  the  initial 
number  of  ' '  RusselPx  "  appeared.  It  was  neatly  printed  in  the 
style  of  "  Blacks ood, "  and  the  general  impression,  typo 
graphical  and  intellectual,  made  by  it,  was  certainly  favora 
ble.  In  the  long  run,  however,  a  want  of  capital  proved  in 
this  case,  as  it  must  prove  in  all  similar  cases,  fatal  ! 
'"Eleemosynary  literature,"  as  Mr.  Sirnins  used  to  call  it, 
can  never  be  permanently  maintained ;  nor,  were  that  possi 
ble,  would  it  in  all  likelihood  be  worth  maintaining.  Never 
theless,  we  struggled  on  with  the  work  for  years ;  nor  until 
the  completion  of  the  fourth  volume,  did  we  confess  our 
selves  beaten,  and  retire  with  our  defunct  "Maga"  from  the 
public  view.  The  lost  means  and  labor  expended  on  this 
Monthly  I  have  always  looked  upon  as  counterbalanced  by 
the  facilities  for  publication  it  afforded  to  our  gifted  local 


24  MEMOIR  OF  HENR7  TIMROD. 

authors ;  especially  to  Timrod,  some  of  whose  most  charm 
ing  and  characteristic  poems  were  composed  for  its  pages. 

Such,  for  instance,  was  '•'•The  Arctic  Voyager,"  in  which  we 
detect  for  the  first  time  in  our  author's  art,  the  influence  of 
Tennyson,  not  superseding,  but  harmoniously  blending 
with  the  earlier  influence  of  Wordsworth.  Such  also,  were 
his  "Prceceptor  Amat,"  and  "The  Rhapsody  of  a  Southern 
Winter's  Night."  Among  the  briefer  lyrics  carelessly  thrown 
off  by  him  at  this  period,  we  find  in  "Russell's"  the  frag 
ment  of  a  song  faithfully  reflecting  one  of  those  sombre 
moods,  which,  owing  to  circumstances  rather  than  tempera 
ment,  were,  alas !  too  frequent  with  him.  It  is  in  a  loose, 
reckless  measure,  rhythmically  unlike  any  other  production 
of  the  writer,  and  since  this  volume  does  not  include  it,  we 
will  quote  the  lines.  They  have  a  psychological,  if  not 
poetical,  significance: 

"  Is  it  gone  forever,  my  gay  spring  time  ? 

Shall  I  never  be  as  I  was  then — 
And  this  dead  heart  which  once  beat  so  wildly, 
Who  shall  wake  it — can  it  wake  again  ? 

"  From  the  sea  where  joy  lies  buried,  shall  not 

Something  like  its  shadow  flutter  up  ? 
The  bright  wine  of  life,  I  quaffed  so  madly. 
Hath  it  left  no  sweetness  in  the  cup  ? 

"  Yet  it  is  not  that  my  youth  has  perished — 

If  I  count  by  years  I  am  not  old ; 
Of  that  youth  I  stripped  the  buds  too  early, 
And  its  leafless  stein  is  all  I  hold. 

"  Oh  !  doth  no  new  Autumn  yet  await  me  ? 

Thus  I  question  Fate,  but  Fate  is  mute. 

Is  it  Autumn  ?  where  is  Autumn's  foliage, 

And  its  golden  store  of  luscious  fruit  ?  " 


MEMOIR  OF  HENRY  TIMROD.  25 

In  the  same  periodical  we  find  a  few  specimens  of  Tim 
rod's  powers  as  a  prose  essayist  and  critic.     Discussing  that 
venerable  question,  "  What  is  Poetry  ?  "  he  shows  a  strong, 
clear  judgment,  and  a  thorough  appreciation  of  his  subject 
in  all  its  phases. 

"As  we  recall,"  he  says,  "the  various  attempts  to  de 
scribe,  in  a  single  definition,  those  operations  of  the  human 
niind  upon  itself  and  the  world  without,  which,  wcarnatedw 
language,  we  term  poetry,  we  are  reminded  of  a  childish 
search,  actually  commenced  by  ourselves,  after  the  pot  of 
gold  which  is  said  to  Ite  buried  at  the  foot  of  the  rainbows. " 

Elsewhere  he  remarks : 

"Poetry  does  not  deal  in  pure  abstractions.  However 
abstract  be  his  thought,  the  poet  is  compelled,  by  his  passion- 
fused  imagination,  to  give  it  life,  form,  or  color. 

' '  Hence  the  necessity  of  employing  the  sensuous  or  concrete 
words  of  the  language,  and  hence  the  exclusion  of  long 
words,  which  in  English  are  nearly  all  purely  and  austerely 
abstract,  from  the  poetic  vocabulary.  Whenever  a  poet 
drags  a  number  of  these  words  into  his  verse,  we  say  that  he 
is  prosaic  ;  meaning  by  this,  not  that  he  has  written  prose, 
nor  that  he  is  simply  deficient  in  spirit  and  vivacity;  but 
that  he  has  not  used  the  legitimate  language  of  poetry ;  he 
has  written  something  which  is  only  distinguished  from  the 
ordinary  dead-level  of  unimpassioned  prose  by  the  feet  upon 
which  it  crawls." 

And  again:  "The  ground  of  the  poetic  character  is  a 
more  than  ordinary  sensibility.  From  this  characteristic  of 
the  poet  results  what  we  regard  as  an  essential  characteristic 
of  poetry,  namely,  the  medium  of  strong  emotion  through 
which  poetry  looks  at  its  objects,  and  in  which,  to  borrow  a 
chemical  metaphor  of  Arthur  Hallam,  'it  holds  them  all 
fused.'  Hence,  again,  is  derived  a  third  peculiarity  in  the 


26  MEMOIR  OF  HENRY  TIMROD. 

language  of  poetry,  which,  with  a  difference  in  the  degree, 
not  the  Mnd,of  its  force — arising  from  an  imagination  more 
than  visually  vivid — is  the  language  natural  to  men  in  a 
state  of  excitement,  is  sensuous*  picturesque,  and  impas 
sioned!  " 

From  these  extracts,  and  the  extracts  about  to  follow,  an 
imperfect  glimpse  may  be  obtained  of  the  writer's  poetic 
creed. 

Timrod,  as  was  natural  with  a  disciple  of  Wordsworth, 
enthusiastically  admired  the  Sonnet.  He  defends  it  against 
.the  assaults  of  a  large  body  of  depreciators  with  admirable 
skill  and  effect. 

"The  Sonnet,"  he  begins,  "has  been  called  artificial.  It  is 
artificial,  but  only  as  all  forms  of  verse  are  artificial.  There 
are  persons  who  imagine  poetry  to  be  the  result  of  a  sort  of 
mystical  inspiration,  scarcely  to  be  subjected  to  the  bounds 
of  time  or  space !  Others,  regarding  it  as  the  outgushing  of 
a  present  emotion,  cannot  conceive  how  the  poet,  carried 
on  by  the  '  divine  afflatus, '  should  always  contrive  to  rein 
in  his  Pegasus  at  a  certain  goal.  All  this  is  ridiculous ! 

' '  If  the  poet  have  his  hour  of  inspiration  (though  we  are 
so  sick  of  the  cant  of  which  this  word  has  been  the  fruitful 
source,  that  we  dislike  to  use  it),  it  is  not  during  the  act  of 
composition. 

"A  distinction  must  be  made  between  the  moment  when 
the  great  thought  first  breaks  upon  the  mind, 

'Leaving  in  the  brain 
A  rocking  and  a  ringing/ 

and  the  hour  of  patient,  elaborate  execution.  It  is  in  the 
conception  only  that  the  poet  is  the  'Kates !  In  the  labor  of 
putting  that  conception  into  words,  he  is  simply  the  artist. 


MEMOIR  OF  HENRY  TIMROD.  27 

"A  great  poet  lias  defined  poetry  to  be  '  emotion  recol 
lected  in  tranquillity.'  No  man  with  grief  in  his  heart 
could  sit  straightway  down  to  strain  that  grief  through 
i:>ml>ics!  No  man  exulting  in  a  delirium  of  joy,  ever  bul> 
bles  into  anapaests !  Were  this  so,  the  poet  would  be  the 
most  wonderful  of  improvisators ;  and  perhaps  poetry  would 
be  no  better  than  what  improvisations  usually  are. 

"  There  can  be  no  doubt  that  much  of  the  most  passionate 
verse  in  the  English,  or  any  other  language,  has  been 

'  Thoughtfully  fitted  to  the  Orphean  lyre/ 

"  The  act  of  composition  is  indeed  attended  with  an  emo 
tion  peculiar  to  itself  and  to  the  poet :  and  this  emotion  is 
sufficient  of  itself  to  give  a  glow  and  richness  to  the  poet's 
language ;  yet  it  leaves  him,  at  the  same  time,  in  such  com 
mand  of  his  faculties,  that  he  is  able  to  choose  his  words 
almost  as  freely,  though  by  no  means  as  deliberately,  as  the 
painter  chooses  his  colors. 

"We  are  inclined  to  think  that  the  emotion  of  the  poet 
somewhat  resembles  in  its  metaphysical  character  those  in 
explicable  feelings  with  which  we  all  witness  a  tragic  per 
formance  on  the  stage — feelings  which,  even  while  they 
rend  the  heart,  are  always  attended  by  a  large  amount  of 
vivid  pleasure. 

"It  would  be  easy  to  multiply  quotations  in  confirmation 
of  our  remarks.  Wordsworth  speaks  of  himself  as 

'  Not  used  to  make 
A  present  joy  the  matter  of  his  song  ; ' 

and  Matthew  Arnold  separates,  as  we  have  separated,  '  the 
hour  of  insight '  from  the  hour  of  labor. 


28  MEMOIR  OF  HENRY  TIMROD. 

We  cannot  kindle  when  we  will 
That  fire  which  in  the  heart  resides  ; 

The  spirit  bloweth,  and  is  still ; 
In  mystery  our  soul  abides : 

But  tasks  in  hours  of  insight  willed, 
May  le  through  hours  of  gloom  fulfilled' 

"Is  it  not  also  a  significant  fact  that  the  best  love-verses 
have  been  written  by  men  who,  at  the  time  of  writing  them, 
had  long  passed  that  age  during  which  love  is  warmest,  and 
the  heart  most  susceptible  ? 


"The  very  restriction  so  much  complained  of  in  the 
Sonnet,  the  artist  knows  to  be  an  advantage.  It  forces  him 
to  condensation,  and  if  it  sometimes  induces  a  poetaster  to 
stretch  a  thought  to  the  finest  tenuity,  what  argument  is  that 
against  the  Sonnet  ?  As  well  might  Jones  object  to  the 
violin  of  Paganini,  because  Smith,  his  neighbor,  is  a  wretched 
fiddler! 

"  The  Sonnet  is  designed,  as  it  is  peculiarly  fitted,  for  the 
development  of  a  single  thought,  emotion,  or  picture. 

"  It  is  governed  by  another  law  not  less  imperative  than 
that  which  determines  its  length.  We  know  not  how  else 
to  characterize  it  but  as  the  law  of  unity  !  In  a  poem  made 
up  of  a  series  of  stanzas,  the  thought  in  the  first  stanza  sug 
gests  the  thought  in  the  second,  and  both  may  be  equally 
important.  The  concluding  stanza  may  have  wandered  as 
far  in  its  allusions  from  the  opening  stanza,  as  the  last  from 
the  first  sentence  in  an  essay.  In  other  words,  the  poet  has 
the  liberty  of  rambling  somewhat,  if  his  fancy  so  dispose 
him. 

"Now,  in  the  Sonnet  this  suggestive  progress  from  one 


MEMOIR  OF  HENRY  TIMROD.  29 

thought  to  another  is  inadmissible.  It  mmt  consist  of  one 
leading  idea  around  which  the  others  are  grouped  for  pur 
poses  of  illustration  only. 


"We  claim  for  the  Sonnet,  as  represented  in  English 
literature,  a  proud  distinction.  We  could  gather  from  it  a 
greater  body  of  tersely  expressed  and  valuable  thought, 
than  from  any  equal  quantity  of  those  fugitive  verses,  the 
laws  of  which  are  less  exacting. 

' '  It  abounds  in  those  '  great  thoughts,  grave  thoughts, ' 
which,  embodied  in  lines  of  wonderful  pregnancy,  haunt  the 
memory  forever. 

' '  Brief  as  the  Sonnet  is,  the  whole  power  of  a  poet  has 
sometimes  been  exemplified  within  its  narrow  bounds  as 
completely  as  within  the  compass  of  an  epic !  Thought  is 
independent  of  space ;  and  it  would  hardly  be  an  exaggera 
tion  to  say  that  the  poet — the  minister  of  thought — enjoys 
an  equal  independence. 

11  To-day,  his  stature  reaches  the  sky;  to-morrow,  he  will  shut 
himself  up  in  the  bell  of  a  tulip  or  the  cup  of  a  lily  I " 

In  1860,  a  small  volume,  comprising  the  best  of  Tirnrod's 
verses,  produced  during  the  eight  or  nine  years  previous, 
was  issued  by  Ticknor  &  Fields,  of  Boston.  A  better  first 
volume  of  the  kind  has  seldom  appeared  anywhere.  It  was 
welcomed  outside  the  author's  immediate  circle  by  a  few 
cultivated  Southern  editors,  and  some  even  of  the  critics  of 
the  North  did  not  hesitate  to  commend  it. 

For  example,  "  The  Tribune"  said:  "These  poems  are 
"vorthy  of  a  wide  audience.  They  form  a  welcome  offering 
to  the  common  literature  of  our  country.  The  author,  whose 
name  promises  to  be  better  known  from  this  specimen  of 
his  powers,  betrays  a  genuine  poetic  instinct  in  the  selection 


30  MEMOIR  OF  HENRT  TIMROD. 

of  his  themes,  and  has  treated  them  with  a  lively,  delicate 
fancy,  and  a  graceful  beauty  of  expression."  * 

The  most  elaborate  performance  in  this  book,  indeed  the 
longest  poem  Tinirod  ever  wrote,  is  called  "A  Vision  of 
Poesy."  Its  purpose  is  to  show,  in  the  subtle  development 
of  a  highly  gifted  imaginative  nature,  the  true  laws  which 
underlie  and  determine  the  noblest  uses  of  the  poetical 
faculty.  »Fhe  subject  is  one  of  difficulty,  demanding  for  its 
successful  treatment  not  only  an  originally  comprehensive 
and  subtle  mind,  but  no  little  knowledge  of  psychological 
truths,  and  the  philosophy  of  intellectual  growth. 

Imagination,  descriptive  capacity,  and  metaphysical  in 
sight  are  active  in  elucidating  the  theme ;  and  the  result  is  a 
generally  pleasing  and  impressive  work,  marred,  however,  by 
a  too  evident  lack  of  harmony  and  unity  of  parts,  proceed- 

*  Such  comparatively  slender  recognition  as  this,  of  course  fell 
short  of  the  poet's  anticipations  of  success.  - 

Apropos  of  this  volume,  a  kindly  but  discerning  critic  observes  : 
— "  The  book  was  full  of  promise;  it  gave  evidence  of  consider 
able  culture,  of  a  lively  fancy,  a  delicate,  and  at  times  vigorous 
imagination,  and  a  rare  artistic  power.  Yet  it  fell  almost  dead 
from  the  press  ! 

"  The  few  who  had  real  critical  taste,  a  genuine  and  native 
appreciation  of  excellence,  felt  and  expressed  their  admiration  ; 
but  the  public  had  no  niche  for  him,  not,  at  least,  until  he  had 
achieved  success,  and  success  was  to  him  a  bitter  need,  for  not 
his  living  merely,  but  his  life  was  staked  upon  it ! 

"  And  the  disappointment  was  peculiarly  keen,  because  just  at 
this  juncture  his  other  resources  had  failed.  He  had  surrendered 
everything  to  his  art. 

"He  had  hoped,  earnestly  and  justly,  to  make  a  little  rift 
through  which  the  light  of  popular  favor  might  steal,  and  now- 
only  clouds  and  shadows  were  closing  round  him." — From  a  Lec 
ture  0*1  Timrod,  and  his  Poetry,  by  Dr.  J.  Dickson  Bruns.  : 


MEMOIR  OF  RENRY  TIMROD.  31 

ing  from  the  fact  that  the  narrative  was  composed  in  sec 
tions,  and  after  the  lapse  of  periods  so  long  between  the 
different  louts  of  composition,  that  much  of  the  original 
fervor  of  both  conception  and  execution  must  have  evapor 
ated.* 

The  metrical  form  of  "The  Vision"  is  well  chosen,  and 
admirably  managed.  It  is  that  employed  by  Shakspeare  in 
his  "Venus  and  Adonis,"  by  Spenser  in  his  "  Astrophel,"  and 
Cowley  in  his  least  ambiguous  verses;  being,  briefly,  the 
elegiac  metre,  with  its  alternate  rhyme,  so  warmly  defended 
by  Dryden,  ending  in  the  terseness  of  the  rhyming  couplet, 
in  which  the  picture  should  be  closed,  or  the  sense  clinched. 

But.  of  course,  the  chief  merit  of  "The  Vision"  is  to  be 
found  in  the  unfolding  of  its  leading  idea.  To  accomplish 
this,  Timrod  has  introduced  a  story  of  the  mental  progress 
of  a  youth,  possessed  of  brilliant  poetic  gifts,  which  are 
partially  nullified,  in  the  end,  by  the  joint  operation  of  mis 
taken  views  of  his  art,  and  a  morbid  subjectivity  of  nature, 
fatal  to  the  acknowledgment  of  his  genius  by  humanity  at 
large. 

The  story  is  divided  into  three  Parts ;  each  devoted  to 
some  particular  phase  of  its  hero's  experience. 

As  the  boy's  "mystical  thought,"  his  desire  to  compre 
hend  something  of  the  secrets  of  the  Universe,  suddenly 
bursts  into  utterance,  he  turns  to  his  mother,  she  who  had 
taught  him  that  "most  beautiful  of  all  things" — speech, 
— saying : 


*  After  all,  "The  Vision  of  Poe^y"  cannot  be  considered  as  in 
any  sense  a  mature  effort. 

Excepting  a  few  passages  which  declare  themselves  to  the  in 
telligent  reader,  the  poem  was  written  at  a  comparatively  early 


32  MEMOIR  OF  HENRY  TIMROD. 

"  But,  mother !  while  our  human  words  are  rife 
To  us  with  meaning,  other  sounds  there  be, 
Which  seem  and  are  the  language  of  a  life 
Around,  yet  unlike  ours — winds  talk,  the  sea 
Murmurs  articulately,  and  the  sky 
Listens  and  answers,  tho'  inaudibly. 

"  By  stream  and  spring,  in  glades  and  woodlands  lone, 
Beside  our  very  cot  I've  gathered  flowers 
Inscribed  with  signs  and  characters  unknown , 
But  the  frail  scrolls  still  baffle  all  my  powers : 
What  is  this  language,  and  where  is  the  key 
That  opes  its  weird  and  wondrous  mystery  ?  " 

The  poor  mother,  from  whom  sordid  cares  and  a  life-time 
of  the  trouble  which  attaches  to  material  toil  had  removed 
her  own  childhood  and  its  visions,  very  far  away,  is  first 
puzzled,  and  then  alarmed,  by  these  strange  questionings. 
She  recalls  a  marvel  that  attended  her  child's  birth,  once 
considered  an  omen  of  good,  but  now  converted  by  super 
stitious  fancy  into  a  curse  and  prophecy  of  disaster !  Trem 
ulously  she  tells  her  son  this  story  of  his  birth-night. 

Thenceforth  the  boy  keeps  his  strange  imaginings,  which 
he  perceives  cannot  be  understood,  locked  in  the  depths  of 
his  own  consciousness. 

Meanwhile,  the  quiet  days  speed  on,  and  in  due  course  of 
time  ' '  the  thoughtful  boy  blossoms  into  youth. "  The 
"dream"  which  had  haunted  his  childhood  becomes  the 
"  deathless  need  "  of  his  maturer  years.  A  spirit  of  unrest, 
yet  of  beauty,  it  drives  him  to  seek  the  heart  of  lonely 
forests,  and  to  wander  over  distant  hills. 

He  communes,  not  only  with  the  waters,  the  sky,  and  the 
flowers,  but  becomes  the  familiar  of  those  wild  creatures  to 
whom  the  sight  of  ordinary  men  brings  terror  and  dismay : 


MEMOIR  OF  HENRY  TIMROD.  33 

"  The  eagle  knew  him  as  she  knew  the  blast, 
And  the  deer  did  not  flee  him  as  he  passed." 

There  is  a  particular  nook  in  the  forest,  to  which  the 
youth  continually  repairs.  One  night  he  comes  to  his  favor 
ite  spot.  The  trees,  ' '  high  and  hushed, "  rise  solemnly  about 
him,  and 

"  Silent,  but  not  as  slumbering,  all  things  there 
Wore  to  the  youth's  aroused  imagination 
An  air  of  deep  and  solemn  expectation." 

The  presentiment  is  not  a  vain  instinct  merely,  for  there 
the  Spirit  of  Poesy  reveals  herself  to  him,  and  in  burning 
words  she  speaks  of  the  glory,  dignity,  and  loveliness  of 
her  divine  art  and  mission. 

This  is,  I  think,  the  most  thoughtful  and  highly-wrought 
portion  of  the  poem. 

Part  the  Second  forms  the  connecting  link  between  the 
opening  and  the  concluding  events  of  the  poet's  career. 

It  is  written  in  blank  verse,  and  with  characteristic  care 
and  skill.  Here  is  a  specimen  of  its  felicity  of  style : 

"  The  story  came  to  me — it  recks  not  whence — 
In  fragments.     Oh  !  if  I  could  tell  it  all — 
If  human  speech  indeed  could  tell  it  all — 
'Twere  not  a  whit  less  wondrous,  than  if  I 
Should  find,  untouched  in  leaf  and  stem,  and  bright 
As  when  it  bloomed  three  thousand  years  ago 
On  some  Idalian  slope,  a  perfect  rose. 
Alas  !  a  leaf  or  two,  and  they  perchance 
Scarce  worth  the  hiving — one  or  two  dead  leaves 
Are  the  sole  harvest  of  a  summer's  toil." 


34  MEMOIR   OF  HENRY  TIMROD. 

"  I  have  heard 

/Somewhere  of  some  dead  monarch,  from  the  tomb, 
WJiere  Tie  had  slept  a  century  and  more, 
Brought  forth,  that  when  the  coffin  was  laid  bare, 
Albeit  the  body  in  its  mouldering  robes 
Was  fleshless,  yet  one  feature  still  remained 
Perfect,  or  perfect  seemed  at  least ;  the  eyes 
Gleamed  for  a  second  on  the  startled  crowd, 
And  then  went  out  in  ashes  !  *    Even  thus, 
The  story,  when  I  drew  it  from  the  grave, 
Wliere  it  had  lain  so  long,  did  seem,  I  thought, 
Not  wholly  lifeless  ;  but  even  while  I  gazed, 
To  fix  its  features  on  my  heart,  and  called 
The  world  to  wonder  with  me,  lo  !  it  proved 
Hooked  upon  a  corpse  !  " 

As  for  the  poet  himself,  he  goes  into  "  the  busy  world  to 
seek  his  fate."  In  many  lands,  and  to  many  peoples  he 
sings 

'  Of  all  he  thought,  and  all  he  dreamed  and  hoped 
But — or  because  the  people  were  intent 

*  Tennyson,  in  his  "Aylmer's  Field/'  a  tale  which  appeared 
after  the  publication  of  "  The  Vision,"  makes  use  of  this  very 
image,  as  follows  : 

"  Dust  are  our  frames  ;  and  gilded  dust,  our  pride 
Looks  only  for  a  moment  whole  and  sound ; 
Like  that  long-buried  body  of  the  king 
Found  lying  with  his  arms  and  ornaments, 
Which  at  a  touch  of  light,  an  air  of  heaven, 
Slipt  into  ashes  and  was  found  no  more." 

Of  these  two  verses,  assuredly  that  of  the  younger  and  obscurer 
poet  is  the  more  striking. 


MEMOIR  OF  HENRY  TIMROD.  35 

On  other  themes,  or  they  were  not  prepared 

To  dream  his  dreams,  or  think  the  thoughts  he  thought, 

Or — that  not  being  as  other  men,  he  touched 

No  chord  that  vibrated  from  heart  to  heart, 

The  peoples  would  not  hear,  or  hearing,  turned 

And  went  their  way  unheedful !'" 

Thus  the  inevitable  climax  approaches,  failure,  disappoint 
ment,  death.  A  love  "not  wisely  placed,"  a  genius  not 
wisely  directed,  these  induce  a  "  sickness  of  the  soul,"  and, 
gray  before  his  time,  his  ideals  shattered,  and  his  true  pas 
sion  unappreciated,  if  not  scorned,  the  poet  seeks  his  ancient 
home,  in  order  that  he  may  look  on  its  beloved  scenes  again 
before  he  himself  is  called  hence,  to  be  beheld  of  men  no 
more. 

There  is  something  in  this  description  of  the  bard's  latter 
and  darker  days ;  of  his  mournful  disenchantment,  his  mild, 
yet  profound  despair,  which  is  singularly  pathetic;  the 
more  pathetic  indeed,  as  the  catastrophe,  losing  for  an  in 
stant  its  idealism,  becomes,  as  it  were,  half  subjective  in  its 
nature,  and  points  to  the  author's  own  melancholy  doom! 

With  the  instinct  of  right  art  and  genuine  feeling,  Timrod 
has  taken  care  not  to  make  his  hero  a  bitter  misanthrope, 
nor  to  leave  him  skeptical  of  the  joy  and  glory  "which  may 
hereafter  be  revealed." 

Even  his  poetic  work  and  mission  are  portrayed  as  not 
utterly  barren  and  fruitless. 

Exalted  is  the  moral,  beautiful  the  philosophy  embodied 
in  these  concluding  lines;  if 

"  Thy  life  hath  not  been  wholly  without  use, 
Albeit  that  use  is  partly  hidden  now. 
In  thy  unmingled  scorn  of  any  truce  .  « 

With  tliis  world's  specious  falsehoods,  often  thou 


36  MEMOIR  OF  HENRY  TIMROD. 

Hast  uttered  through  some  all  unworldly  song, 
Truths  that  for  man  might  else  have  slumbered  long. 

"  And  these  not  always  vainly  on  the  crowd 
Have  fallen ;  some  are  cherished  now,  and  some, 
In  mystic  phrases  wrapped  as  in  a  shroud, 
Wait  the  diviner,  who  as  yet  is  dumb 
Upon  the  breast  of  God — the  gate  of  birth 
Closed  on  a  dreamless  ignorance  of  earth. 

"  And  therefore,  though  thy  name  shall  pass  away, 
Even  as  a  cloud  that  hath  ioept  all  its  showers, 
Yet  as  that  cloud  shall  live  again  one  day 
In  the  glad  grass  and  in  the  happy  flowers  ; 
So  in  thy  thoughts,  though  clothed  in  sweeter  rhymes, 
Thy  life  shall  bear  its  flowers  in  future  times  !  " 

Of  the  minor  poems  which  followed  "  The  Vision,"  it  is 
unnecessary  to  speak  in  detail.  The  ablest  of  them  have  been 
included  in  the  present  edition. 

iWe  now  come  to  the  period  of  the  War,  during  the  first 
months  of  which  Timrod  remained  chiefly  in  Charleston,  serv 
ing  his  country  a  thousand  times  more  effectually  with  his 
}pen,  than  he  could  possibly  have  served  her  with  his  sword. 
'•  It  was  in  1861  that  he  inaugurated  that  remarkable  series 
of  poems,  suggested  by  the  incidents  of  the  great  conflict, 
tragic  or  triumphant,  in  which  he  struck  a  higher  and 
firmer  note  than  any  hitherto  elicited  from  his  lyre. 

"Ethnogenesis"  is  the  worthy  leader  of  these  sustained  and 
earnest  strains.  The  dignity  and  calmness  of  its  tone,  cov 
ering  unsounded  depths  of  ardor  and  enthusiasm  ;  its  subtle 
grace  of  imagination,  feeling,  and  imagery,  and  the  crisp 
purity  of  the  versification  are  so  artistically  blended  in  this 
ODE,  that  one  cannot  criticise,  but  must  simply  and  hon- 


MEMOIR  OF  HENRY  TTMROD.  37 

estly  admire  it !  The  concluding  stanza  cannot  now  be  road, 
at  least  by  any  Southerner,  without  a  yearning  and  passion 
ate  regret.  How  the  Poet's  cordial  sympathetic  temper  re 
veals  itself  in  these  lines,  which  came  more  naturally  to  him 
':han  visions  of  violence  and  blood ! 

"  But  let  our  fears — if  fears  we  have — be  still, 
And  turn  us  to  the  future  !     Could  we  climb 
Some  mighty  Alp,  and  view  the  coming  time, 
The  rapturous  sight  would  fill 
Our  eyes  with  happy  tears  ! 
Not  only  for  the  glories  which  the  years 
Shall  bring  us  ;  not  for  lands  from  sea  to  sea, 
And  wealth,  and  power,  and  peace,  though  these  shall  be  ; 
But  for  the  distant  peoples  we  shall  bless, 
And  the  hushed  murmurs  of  a  world's  distress  ; 
For,  to  give  labor  to  the  poor, 
This  whole  sad  planet  o'er, 

And  save  from  want  and  crime  the  humblest  door, 
Is  one  among  the  many  ends  for  which 

God  makes  us  great  and  rich  ! 
The  hour  perchance  is  not  yet  wholly  ripe 
When  all  shall  own  it,  but  the  type 
Whereby  we  shall  be  known  in  every  land, 
Is  that  vast  Gulf  which  laves  our  Southern  strand, 
And  through  the  cold,  untempered  Ocean  pours 
Its  genial  streams,  that  far-off  Arctic  shores 
May  sometimes  catch  upon  the  softened  breeze 
Strange  Tropic  warmth,  and  HINTS  of  summer  seas  !  " 

That  resonant  lyric,-  "  A  Call  toArms^"  succeeded  "  Ethno- 
genesis."  It  contains  one  of  the  few  palpable  conceits  I  can 
recall,  which  would  seem  hot  merely  admissible,  but  charm 
ing. 

And  next  appeared  aTyrtae'an  strain  indeed,  I  mean  the 


38  MEMOIR   OF  HENRY  TIMROD. 

lines  on  "  Carolina  ;  "  — lines  destined  perhaps  to  outlive  the 
political  vitality  of  the  State,  whose  antique  fame  they  cele 
brate. 

I  read  them  first,  and  was  thrilled  by  their  power  and 
pathos,  upon  a  stormy  March  evening  in  Fort  Suniter  ! 
Walking  along  the  battlements,  under  the  red  light  of  a  tem 
pestuous  sunset,  the  wind  steadily  and  loudly  blowing  from 
off  the  bar  across  the  tossing  and  moaning  waste  of  waters, 
driven  inland ;  with  scores  of  gulls  and  white  sea-birds  fly 
ing  and  shrieking  round  me, — those  wild  voices  of  Nature 
mingled  strangely  with  the  rhythmic  roll  and  beat  of  the 
poet's  impassioned  music.  The  very  spirit,  or  dark  genius, 
of  the  troubled  scene,  appeared  to  take  up,  and  to  repeat 
such  verses  as — 

"  I  hear  a  murmur  as  of  waves 
That  grope  their  way  through  sunless  caves, 
Like  bodies  struggling  in  their  graves, 

Carolina ! 

"And  now  it  deepens  ;  slow  and  grand 
It  swells,  as  rolling  to  the  land, 
An  ocean  broke  upon  the  strand, 

Carolina  ! 

"  Shout !  let  it  reach  the'  startled  Huns  1 
And  roar  with  all  thy  festal  guns ! 
It  is  the  answer  of  thy  sons  ! 

Carolina !  " 

At  last,  influenced  by  these  and  other  poems  of  kindred 
force  and  fire,  the  public  awoke  to  a  sense  of  Timrod's  unu 
sual  merit.  Towards  the  close  of  18G2,  a  project  was  formed 
in  Charleston,  with  the  view  of  having  an  illustrated  and 
highly  embellished  edition  of  Timrod's  works  published  in 


MEMOIR  OF  HENRY  TIMROD.  39 

the  city  of  London.  Vizetelli,  an  Englishman  of  Italian 
blood,  and  an  artist  of  some  eminence,  then  the  Southern 
AVur  Correspondent  of  "  The  London  News,"  offered  to  sup 
ply  original  illustrations  of  his  own  ;  and  so  warm  was  the 
support  the  proposition  met  with  from  some  of  the  chief 
men  and  most  opulent  merchants  of  the  State,  that  but  little 
doubt  was  entertained  of  its  immediate  and  practical  realiza 
tion.* 

The  poet,  now  in  jubilant  spirits,  collected  all  the  compo 
sitions  of  which  his  taste  approved,  and  had  them  printed 
near  him,  so  that  correct  proof-sheets  might  be  sent  to  the 
publishers  across  the  Ocean.  Among  his  war-lyrics  he  placed 
some  poems,  also  lately  written,  of  a  more  subjective  tone  and 
character,  for  example — "Katie,"  and  "An  Exotic;"  both 
of  which,  from  their  references  to  English  history,  scenery, 
and  manners,  were  likely  to  be  appreciated  in  the  ' '  mother 
land."  Tho  former  ("Katie")  is  dedicated  to  the  lady 
whom  Timrod  subsequently  married  ;  and  is  full  of  charm 
ing  details  of  her  girlish  walks  through  the  streets  of  old 
Bury  St.  Edmunds ;  and  of  her  innocent  holiday  pastime  in 
the  lovely  country  around  it.  The  piece  is  almost  pre- 
Rapliaelite  in  the  delicious  minuteness  of  its  word-painting. 

But  alas!  that  evil  Fortune,  that  haunted  our  poet  from 
the  cradle  to  the  grave,  that  never  left  him  for  a  season,  but 
to  return  darker,  grimmer,  more  ruthless  than  before  ;  de 
creed  that  the  publication  scheme,  which  had  aroused  his 
best  hopes  and  energies,  by  promising  to  make  his  genius 
known  in  the  great  centre  of  English  literary  art,  should 
prove  but  a  mockery  and  delusion  after  all ! 

*  The  intention,  we  learn,  was  "  to  present  this  edition  to  the 
author ;  the  object  being  to  bring  him,  in  the  highest  style,  before 
the  world,  and  at  the  same  time  to  secure  to  him  a  modest  compe 
tence." 


40  MEMOIR  OF  HENRY  TIMROD. 

In  the  hurry  and  pressure  of  great  events,  the  solitary 
singer,  "pipe  he  never  so  sweetly  and  boldly,"  was  quite 
forgotten. 

Those  gentlemen  who  had  played  the  kindly  role  of  patrons, 
found  their  own  weightier  interests,  and  no  doubt  the  in 
terests  of  the  Commonwealth,  endangered;  therefore  what 
more  natural  than  the  consignment  by  them  of  the  poet's 
expectations  to  that  region  of  "Limbo,"  which  is  said 
to  engulf  so  many  ' '  vows  unredeemed,  and  visions  unful 
filled  ?  " 

Although  no  reason  was  ever  given  to  Timrod,  for  the 
abandonment  of  this  scheme,  he  could  form  his  own  con 
jectures  on  the  subject.  Every  hour  his  once  bright  an 
ticipations  grew  duller,  until  ultimately  they  smouldered 
out,  one  by  one,  in  the  anguish,  solitude,  and  bitterness  of 
his  soul.* 

*  Years  afterwards  Timrod,  on  two  occasions,  alludes  (in  his 
correspondence)  to  the  manner  in  which  the  scheme  had  died  out. 

"  The  great  plan,"  he  writes,  "  for  publishing  an  illustrated  edi 
tion  of  my  poems  has  (/  believe)  evaporated  in  smoke  !  So  fades, 
so  languishes,  grows  dim  and  dies,  the  hope  of  every  poet  who  has 
not  money ! " 

In  another,  and  more  recent  letter,  he  thus  refers  to  the  subject : 
"  The  project  of  publishing  my  poems  in  England  has  been  silently 
but  altogether  dropped!  An  unspeakable  disappointment!  but  I 
try  to  bear  my  lot — the  lot,"  he  adds,  with  a  momentary  bitter 
ness,  "of  all  impecunious  poets." 

Next  to  the  poet  himself,  this  disappointment  in  regard  to  the 
English  edition  of  his  works,  fell  most  heavily  upon  his  mother. 
Perhaps  in  HER  case,  the  disappointment  was  even  greater,  since, 
,  in  extreme  old  age, she  could  scarcely  look  forward  to  the  sharing 
of  any  possible  literary  triumph  of  her  son  in  the  future. 

The  mention  of  her  here,  gives  us  the  opportunity  of  quoting 
some  passages  from  an  interesting  letter  descriptive  of  this  lady's 


MEMOIR  OF  HENRY  TIMROD.  41 

It  was  soon  after  the  bloody  and  desperate  battle  of  Shiloh, 
that  Timrod  joined  the  army  of  the  West,  as  "War  Corre 
spondent"  of  the  Charleston  "Mercury." 

family,  her  character,  intellect,  etc.,  written  by  one  who  knew 
her  in  all  the  most  sacred  and  intimate  relations  of  existence. 

Such  as  read  them  may  think  that  our  former  assertion,  or 
rather,  inference,  that  the  poet's  genius  was  wholly  derived  from 
his  father,  ought  to  be  considerably  qualified. 

"  Henry  Timrod's  mother  was  the  daughter  of  Mr.  Charles 
Prince,  a  citizen  of  Charleston,  S.  C.,  and  one  of  whom,  at  his 
death,  my  father  said,  '  he  was  the  most  upright  and  honest  man 
I  ever  knew.' 

"  Mr.  Prince  was  the  son  of  English  parents,  who  emigrated  to 
Carolina  just  before  the  breaking  out  of  the  Eevolution. 

"He  married  a  Miss  French,  whose  father,  of  the  Swiss  family 
of  French,  came  over  from  Switzerland,  and  fought  as  an  officer 
of  Republican  artillery,  during  the  whole  war." 

********  * 

"My  father  (Win.  H.  Timrod),  at  the  early  age  of  nineteen, 
married  Miss  Prince,  then  a  young  and  beautiful  girl  of  six 
teen  or  seventeen.  The  perfection  of  her  face  'and  form  caught 
the  poet's  fancy  ;  the  perfection  of  her  character  won  and  kept 
his  HEART  through  the  twenty-six  years  of  their  married  life. 

"  It  was  from  her,  more  than  from  his  gifted  father,  that"  my 
brother  (Henry  Timrod)  derived  that  intense,  passionate  love  of 
Nature  which  so  distinguished  him.  Its  sights  and  sounds  always 
afforded  her  extreme  delight.  Shall  I  ever  forget  the  almost 
childish  rapture  she  testified,  when,  after  a  residence  in  the  pent- 
up  city  all  her  life,  she  removed  with  me  to  the  country  ?  A  walk 
in  the  woods  to  her  was  food  and  drink,  and  the  sight  of  a  green 
field  was  joy  inexpressible. 

"  From  my  earliest  childhood,  I  can  remember  her  love  for 
flowers  and  trees  and  for  the  stars  ;  how  she  would  call  our  atten 
tion  to  the  glintings  or  the  sunshine  through  the  leaves ;  to  the 
afternoon's  lights  and  shadows,  as  they  slept  quietly,  side  by  side; 
and  even  to  a  streak  of  moonlight  on  the  floor. 


42  MEMOIR  OF  HENRY  TIMROD. 

"The  story,"  says  Dr.  Bruns,  in  his  masterly  Lecture  on 
the  Poet  and  his  genius,  "  the  story  of  his  camp  life  would 
furnish  a  theme  for  mirth,  if  our  laughter  were  not  choked 
by  tears!  One  can  scarcely  conceive  a  situation  more  hope 
lessly  wretched  than  that  of  this  child,  as  it  were,  suddenly 
flung  down  into  the  heart  of  that  stormy  retreat,  and  tossed 
like  a  straw  on  the  crest  of  those  crimson  waves,  from  which 
he  escaped  as  by  a  miracle." 

Out  of  the  refluent  tides  of  blood,  from  under  the  smoke 
of  conflict,  and  the  sickening  fumes  of  slaughter,  he  stag 
gered  homeward,  half  blinded,  bewildered,  with  a  dull  red 
mist  before  his  eyes,  and  a  shuddering  horror  at  heart. 

But  now,  as  if  some  beneficent  spirit,  who  had  long  wit 
nessed  his  troubles,  and  also  the  calm,  brave  front  of  patience 
wherewith  he  opposed  them,  had  resolved  that  at  the  last, 
some  sweetness  should  be  mingled  with  the  wormwood  of 
his  life,  he  exchanged  the  turmoil  of  his  recent  deadly  expe 
rience,  for  what  to  him  must  have  seemed,  by  comparison,  a 
very  Eden  of  peace  and  happiness  ! 

Removing  to 'Columbia,  S.  0.,  whither  his  family  had  pre 
ceded  him,  he"  was  enabled  to  become  (but  through  Avhat 
precise  means  I  cannot  tell)  part  proprietor  and  associate 
editor  of  the  "  South  Carolinian^'1  a  daily  paper,  published 

"  She  would  sit  absorbed,  watching  the  tree-branches  as  they 
waved  in  the  wind,  and  say,  '  Don't  they  seern  to  be  whispering 
to  each  other  in  a  language  of  their  own  ?  ' 

"  To  this  strong  love  of  Nature,  she  added  so  correct  a  judgment 
in  all  things ;  so  much  sound  practical  sense  ;  such  self-abnega 
tion  and  entire  devotion  to  those  she  loved ;  and  such  sweetness, 
forbearance,  gentleness,  that  I  think  I  can  truly  say,  she  was  one 
of  the  most  perfect  characters  I  ever  knew  ! 

"  Her  children  loved  her  with  a  devotion  rarely  given  even  to 
parents." 


MEMOIR  OF  HENRY  TIMROD.  43 

in  the  Capital,  which  promised  to  yield  him  a  moderate,  and 
what  Avns  better  still,  a  permanent  support. 

Thus  provided  for,  as  he  fondly  believed,  Timrod  saAv  the 
possibility  of  realizing  what  had  long  been  the  dearest  Avish 
of  his  soul.  Miss  Kate  GoodAvin,  the  "Katie"  of  hijs  poetic 
visions,  she  Avhose  charms  are  embalmed  in  his  delicate  yet 
glowing  Averse,  came  to  this  country  from  England  in  the 
spring  of  I860.  She  accompanied  her  father,  wrho  came  to 
visit  his  son  (Mr.  George  M.  GoodAvin,  long  settled  as  a  mer 
chant  in  Charleston,  S.  C.,  and  married  to  one  of  Henry 
Timrod's  sisters),  and  also,  in  accordance  with  his  physician's 
advice,  Avho  stated  that  a  voyage  across  the  Atlantic,  and  a 
residence  of  some  months  in  a  semi-Tropical  latitude,  might 
entirely  re-establish  his  health.  The  change,  however,  did 
not  benefit  him,  for  he  died  three  months  after  his  arrival. 
The  choice  was  then  presented  to  Miss  GoodAvin  of  remain 
ing  with  her  brother's  family,  or  of  returning  to  England 
with  her  stepmother.  She  chose  the  former  ;  and  thus  it 
happened  that  the  poet  Avas  often  thrown  into  her  society. 

On  the  12th  of  January,  1864,  our  poet  came  to  the  State 
Capital,  prepared  to  assume  his  duties  as  editor,  and  in  little 
more  than  a  month,  that  is  to  say,  on  the  16th  of  the  ensuing 
February,  he  married  Miss  Goodwin,-  taking  his  bride  to  a 
humble  home,  but  one  glorified,  I  venture  to  say,  by  antici 
pations  as  bright,  pure,  and  ardent  as  ever  flushed  the  fancy 
and  elevated  the  heart  of  the  richest  and  most  prosperous  of 
bridegrooms. 

It  is  pleasant  to  dwell  upon  his  honeymoon,  and  the  few 
months  immediately  succeeding  it ;  to  picture  his  cheerful 
walks  from  his  home  to  the  office,  and  from  the  office  to  his 
home  again.  He  proved  himself  a  judicious  and  able  editor, 
and  his  indiu.iry  never  flagged. 

Once  or  twice  during  these  comparatively  halcyon  days, 


44  MEMOIR  OF  HENRY  TIMROD. 

I  received  aff ectionate  letters  from  him ;  but  amid  his  in 
cessant  occupations  he  could  do  no  more  than  give  me  an 
outline  of  his  employments,  prospects,  and  occasional  business 
annoyances,  which  latter,  however,  as  I  gathered  from  his 
tone,  were  never  permitted  to  ruffle  his  serene  domestic 
atmosphere.  "All  the  poetry  in  my  nature,"  wrote  he, 
"has  been  fagged  out  of  me,  I  fear!  I  work  very  hard. 
Besides  writing  the  *  leaders  '  of  the  paper,  I  often  descend, 
as  you  may  have  noticed,  into  the  local  columns.  My  pur 
pose  is  to  show  that  a  poet  can  drudge  as  well  as  a  duller 
man,  and . therefore  I  don't  complain!  But,  O  God!  for 
leisure  enough  to  breathe,  although  at  rarest  intervals,  the 
air  of  the  Aonian  mount!  By  the  way,"  he  inquires  in  the 
same  note,  "What  think  you  of  the  War?  Shall  we 
ever  see  its  end,  favorable  or  unfavorable,  glorious  or  fatal? 
Its  end,  deuce  take  me !  but  I  sometimes  fear  it  has  been 
like  the  end  of  the  Irishman's  rope — cut  off!  " 

Another  end,  at  least,  was  imminent,  the  end  of  his  own 
hard-won  quiet ;  his  independence  and  partial  prosperity. 

But  just  on  the  verge  of  the  catastrophe,  an  intense  joy 
was  granted  him.  Upon  Christmas  Eve,  1864,  his  son 
WILLIE  was  born ! — a  child  of  unusual  promise,  and  of  a 
beauty  described  as  exquisite. 

In  a  communication  all  couleur  de  rose,  bubbling  over  with 

pride  and  delight,  he  says,  * '  At  length,  my  dear  P ,  we 

stand  upon  the  same  height  of  paternity — quite  a  celestial 
elevation  to  me !  If  you  could  only  see  my  boy !  Everybody 
wonders  at  him!  He  is  so  transparently  fair;  so  ethereal!  " 

A  few  weeks  of  dalliance  with  his  infant  beauty ;  of  un 
disturbed  calm  in  the  little  nest  of  a  home  he  had  reared  for 
himself  and  his  wife,  and  then  came  fearful  reports  of  inva 
sion;  the  rapid,  overwhelming  march  of  the  enemy,  and 
upon  the  17th  of  February,  1865  (just  one  year  and  a  day, 


MEMOIR   OF  HENRY  TIM  ROD.  45 

since  Timrod's  marriage),  the  devoted  city  of  Columbia  was 
given  up  to  the  mercies  of  Sherman  and  his  troops. 

What  followed  is  known  to  all — the  conflagration,  the  sack, 
the  universal  terror  and  despair!  As  one  whose  vigor 
ous,  patriotic  editorials  had  made  him  obnoxious  to  Federal 
vengeance,  Timrod  was  forced,  while  this  foreign  army  occu 
pied  the  town,  to  remain  concealed.  When  they  left,  he 
rejoined  his  anxious  "womankind,"  to  behold,  in  common 
with  thousands  of  others,  such  a  scene  of  desolation  as  mor 
tal  eyes  have  seldom  dwelt  upon. 

An  imperfect  glimpse  of  his  condition;  of  what  he  did 
and  suffered  for  the  next  twelvemonth,  may  be  obtained 
from  this  letter,  addressed  to  me,  and  dated  "  Columbia, 
March  30 tf,  18G6: 

' '  My  dear  P :  Nothing  has  come  to  me  for  the  past  year 

which  has  given  me  such  pleasure  as  your  letter  of  the 

instant.  I  am  overjoyed  to  renew  our  correspondence. 

"Dear  old  fellow!  heart  and  hand,  body,  soul,  and  spirit, 
I  am  still  yours ! 

"  I  have  the  right  poet's  inclination  to  plunge  in  media*  res. 
You  ask  me  to  tell  you  my  story  for  the  last  year.  I  can 
embody  it  all  in  a  few  words:  beggary,  starvation,  death,* 
Utter  grief,  utter  want  of  hope !  But  let  me  be  a  little  more 
particular,  that  you  may  learn  where  I  stand.  You  know,  I 
suppose,  that  the  Sherman  raid  destroyed  my  business.  Since 
that  time  I  have  been  residing  with  my  sister,  Mrs.  Goodwin. 
Both  my  sister  and  myself  are  completely  impoverished.  We 
have  lived  for  a  long  period,  and  are  still  living,  on  the  pro 
ceeds  of  the  gradual  sale  of  furniture  and  plate.  We  have — 

*  Five  months  before,  on  the  23d  of  October,  1865,  Timrod's 
idolized  child  was  taken  from  him.  He  died  somewhat  suddenly. 
In  that  little  grave,  a  large  portion  of  the  father's  heart  was 
buried.  The  poet  was  never  quite  his  old  self  again. 


46  MEMOIR   OF  HENRY  TIMROD. 

let  me  see ! — yes,  we  have  eaten  two  silver  pitchers,  one  or 
two  dozen  silver  forks,  several  sofas,  innumerable  chairs,  and 
a  huge  —  —  bedstead !  ! 

"  Until  December,  I  had  no  employment.  Mr. passed 

through  Columbia  in  November  on  his  way  to  the  sea-board. 
He  called  on  me,  informed  me  that  he  was  going  to  re-estab 
lish  his  paper  in  Charleston,  and  promised  that  I  should  have 
my  old  interest  in  it. 

"On  reaching  Charleston,  he  started  '  The  Carolinian^  and 
soon  he  wrote  me  (but  addressing  me  as  a  mere  employe),  and 
offering  a  salary  of  fifteen  dollars  a  week  for  daily  edito 
rials.  Necessity  compelled  me  to  accept  this  offer. 

' '  I  have  now  hacked  on  for  four  months,  and  as  yet  have 
failed  to  receive  a  single  month's  pay. 

"  The  plain  truth  is,  Mr. can't  pay  !  He  made  a  grave 

mistake  in  carrying  his  paper  to  Charleston.  Under  the 
shadow  of  the  '  News '  and  '  Courier, '  it  is  languishing,  and 
must  die  !  What  I  am  going  to  do,  I  can't  imagine. 

' '  As  for  supporting  myself  and  a  large  family — wife, 
mother,  sister  and  nieces,  by  literary  work — 'tis  utterly  pre 
posterous  ! 

"In  a  '  forlorn-hope '  sort  of  mood,  and  as  a  mere  experi 
ment,  I  forwarded  some  poems  in  my  best  style  to  certain 
Northern  periodicals,  and  in  every  instance  they  were  coldly 
declined. 

' '  So  all  hope  of  thus  turning  my  rhymes  into  bread  must  be 
resigned."  Whereupon,  with  a  self-mocking  spurt  of  humor, 
he  adds,  "  Little  Jack  Horner,  who  sang  for  his  supper,  and 
got  his  plum  cake,  was  a  far  more  lucky  minstrel  than  I  am ! 

*  *  *  To  confess  the  truth,  my  dear  P ,  I  not  only  feel 

that  I  can  write  no  more  verse,  but  I  am  perfectly  indifferent 
to  the  fate  of  what  I  have  already  composed. 

' '  I  would  consign  every  line  of  it  to  eternal  oblivion,  for 
— one  hundred  dollars  in  hand  /***** 


MEMOIR  OF  HENRY  TIMROD.  4? 

44 1  can  tell  you  nothing  about  Charleston,  although  in 
February,  having  a  free  Railroad  ticket,  I  went  down  and 
spent  three  days  there.  My  eyes  were  blind  to  everything 
and  everybody  but  a  few  old  friends.  I  dined  with  Bruns ; 
had  a  night  of  it  at  Henry  Raymond's,  and  went  to  see  the 
lions  in  the  circus! 

' '  The  sum  of  this  small  experience  of  my  native  town  is, 
that  the  people  are  generally  impoverished,  sulfering,  de 
spondent,  with  all  the  spring  and  elasticity  taken  out  of 
them.  *  *  *  *  My  wife  has  been  very  sick.  Her  low 
condition  of  health,  indeed,  makes  me  continually  anxious." 

A  fair  conception  of  Timrod's  editorial  style — its  pic- 
turesqucness  and  beauty,  allied  to  much  quiet  power,  may  be 
obtained  by  a  perusal  of  three  brief  articles  of  his,  published 
in  "  The  Carolinian." 

The  first  of  these,  evidently  composed  during  the  closing 
days  of  the  war,  is  called 

"THE  ALABAMA." 

"  The  bones  of  the  noble  '  Alabama,'  full  fathom  five  under 
the  English  channel,  have,  perchance,  long  ere  this,  suffered 
'  a  sea  change  into  something  rich  and  strange.'  Precious 
jewels  these  bones  would  be  if  they  could  be  fished  up  now 
— yet  not,  thank  Heaven,  of  that  sort  of  value  which  would 
make  our  Destructive  friends  think  it  worth  while  to  bring 
them  into  the  Admiralty  courts.  A  Southron  might  possibly 
be  permitted  to  treasure  a  shell-covered  rib,  without  fear  of 
having  it  torn  from  him  by  the  myrmidons  of  the  law.  And 
well  might  that  Southron — well  indeed  might  the  citizen  of 
any  section  of  the  United  States,  if  he  would  consider  the 
matter  magnanimously — cherish  any  relic  that  could  be 
recovered  of  this  dead  lioness  of  the  seas.  For  what  a  won 
derful  history  was  hers!  A  single  ship  matched  against  one 


48  MEMOIR   OF  HENRY  TIMROD. 

of  the  mightiest  navies  of  the  world,  yet  keeping  the  ocean 
in  defiance  of  all  pursuit  for — we  forget — how  many  years ! 
Flitting  like  a  phantom  across  the  waters,  appearing  at  aston 
ishingly  short  intervals  in  the  most  opposite  quarters  of  the 
globe,  we  used  to  follow  her  track  with  something  of  that 
weird  interest  which  was  wont  to  thrill  us  in  our  boyhood 
when  poring  over  a  tale  of  the  ghostly  Dutchman  of  the 
Cape.  At  one  time  lost  in  the  fogs  of  the  Northern  Atlantic, 
at  another  popping  up  in  the  region  of  the  trade  winds,  scat 
tering  dismay  among  the  clippers ;  and  anon,  far  away  in  the 
direction  of  the  dawn,  where  much  more  precious  spoil  might 
be  reaped,  or,  if  not  reaped,  then  consigned  to  that  vast  locker 
of  which  the  mythic  '  Davy '  of  the  sailor,  is  said  to  keep 
the  key — such  were  the  reports  that  reached  us  from  month 
to  month  of  this  almost  ubiquitous  vessel.  Now  we  heard, 
perhaps,  that,  in  the  neighborhood  of  the  Golden  Cher- 
sonesus,  or  under  the  rich  shores  of  that  '  utmost  Indian  isle 
Toprobane,'  some  homeward-bound  Englishman  had  been 
startled  by  the  dull  boom  of  guns  across  the  billows,  while  a 
red  light  upon  the  horizon  informed  him  that  the  '  Alabama' 
was  illuminating  those  remote  seas  with  the  fires  of  Confede 
rate  revenge ;  and,  again  a  little  later,  it  was  bruited  from 
port  to  port  that  fihe  was  speeding  across  the  main — haply 
amazing  the' gentle  islanders  of  the  Pacific  with  the  gleam 
of  her  beautiful  but  unfamiliar  flag — to  complete  the  circuit 
of  her  awful  mission  with  the  destruction  of  a  few  treasure 
ships  of  the  Ophir  of  the  West !  The  repeated  achievement 
of  the  adventure  has  rendered  the  circumnavigation  of  the 
globe  in  these  modern  days  a  commonplace  thing;  but  there 
w as  that  in  the  errand  upon  which  the  '  Alabama '  was 
bound,  which  reinvested  the  voyage  with  its  old  romance ;  so 
that,  in  accompanying  the  Southern  cruiser  upon  her  various 
paths,  we  used  to  experience  a  feeling  somewhat  resembling 


MEMOIR  OF  HENRY  TIMROD.  49 

that  imaginative  one  which  WORDSWORTH  has  expressed  in 
these  deep-toned  lines : 

'  Almost  as  it  was  when  ships  were  rare, 
From  time  to  time,  like  pilgrims,  here  and  there, 
Crossing  the  waters,  doubt  and  something  dark, 
Of  the  old  sea  some  reverential  fear, 
Were  with  us  as  we  watched  thee,  noble  bark.' 
"  The  career  of  the  '  Alabama '  was  worthily  closed.    Chal 
lenged  by  a  foe  more  powerful  than  herself,  she  sallied  forth 
bravely  to  battle  and  went  down  in  the  sight  of  the  coast  of 
one  people  and  of  the  ships  of  another,  who  each  knew  liov 
to  admire  the  valor  which  she  had  displayed.     What  a  pity 
and  what  a  wonder  it  is  that  the  same  generous  appreciation 
of  her  glorious  story,  and  its  not  less  glorious  end,   is  not- 
shared  in  the  country  which  enshrines  the  name  of  LAW 
RENCE  !     Who  could  believe,  that  did  not  know  it,  that  we 
Southrons  are  expected  by  those  who  call  us  brethren  to  re 
member  this  gallant*  ship  only  as  a  corsair,  and  its  venerated 
commander  as  a  pirate." 

The  two  others,  written  at  a  later  date,  some  months  in  fact 
after  the  surrender  at  Apponiattox,  are  certainly  fine  speci 
mens  of  "poetic  prose." 

"SPRING'S  LESSONS." 

"Spring,  thank  Heaven,  is  not  subject  to  radical  rule,  or 
pregnable  to  radical  intrigues ;  otherwise,  she  would  certainly 
be  proscribed,  outlawed  or  expatriated  by  Thaddeus  Stevens 
and  his  crew.  For  Spring  is  a  true  reconstructionist — a  re- 
constructionist  in  the  best  and  most  practical  sense.  There 
is  not  a  nook  in  the  land  in  which  she  is  not  at  this  moment 
exerting  her  influence,  in  preparing  a  way  for  the  restoration 
of  the  South.  No  politician  may  oppose  her;  her  power 
defies  embarrassment ;  but  she  is  not  altogether  independent 


50  MEMOIR   OF  HENRY  TIMROD. 

of  help.  She  brings  us  balmy  airs  and  gentle  dews,  golden 
suns  and  silver  rains;  and  she  says  to  us:  'These  are  the 
materials  of  the  only  work  in  which  you  need  be  at  present 
concerned:  avail  yourselves  of  them  to  re-clothe  your  naked 
country  and  feed  your  impoverished  people,  and  you  will  find 
that,  in  the  discharge  of  that  task,  you  have  taken  the  course 
which  will  most  certainly  and  most  peacefully  conduct  you 
to  the  position  which  you  desire.  Turn  not  aside  to  bandy 
epithets  with  your  enemies ;  stuff  your  ears  like  the  princess 
in  the  '  Arabian  Nights, '  against  words  of  insult  and  wrong ; 
pause  not  to  muse  over  your  condition,  or  to  question  your 
prospects;  but  toil  on  bravely,  silently,  surely,  and  you 
will  reap  a  reward  to  which  the  yellow  water,  talking  bird, 
and  the  singing  tree  of  the  fairy  tale,  are  not  to  be  compared.' 
' '  Such  are  the  words  of  wise  and  kindly  counsel,  which,  if 
we  attend  rightly,  we  may  all  hear  in  the  winds  and  read  in 
the  skies  of  spring.  Nowhere,  however,  does  she  speak  with 
so  eloquent  a  voice  or  so  pathetic  an  effect  as  in  this  ruined 
town.*  She  covers  our  devastated  courts  with  images  of  reno 
vation  in  the  shape  of  flowers ;  she  hangs  once  more  in  our 
blasted  gardens  the  fragrant  lamps  of  the  jessamine ;  in  the 
streets,  she  kindles  the  maple  like  a  beacon  announcing 
peace ;  and  from  amidst  the  charred  and  blackened  ruins  of 
once  happy  homes,  she  pours  through  the  mouth  of  her 
favorite  musician,  the  mocking-bird,  a  song  of  hope  and  joy. 
What  is  the  lesson  which  she  designs  by  these  means  to  con 
vey  ?  It  may  be  summed  in  a  single  sentence — forgetfulness 
of  the  past,  effort  in  the  present,  and  trust  for  the  future !  " 

"NAMES    OF    THE    MONTHS    PHONETICALLY    EX 
PRESSIVE." 

"Talking  of  the  offices  of  March  and  April,  reminds  us  of 
a  fancy  of  ours  which  we  desire  to  record.     It  will,  however, 

*  Columbia,  S.  C. 


MEMOIR  OF  HENRY  TIMROD.  51 

find  no  sympathy  from  those  who  rend  words  with  the  eye, 
or  hear  them  with  the  ear  alone.  We  speak  only  to  the  rare 
few  who  possess  an  inner  sense  of  which  the  common  world 
knows  nothing.  The  fancy  is  that  each  month  has  a  name 
phonetically  expressive  (to  their  inner  sense,  mark  you) 
of  its  character.  For  example,  the  winds  seem  to  us  to  rum 
ble  in  the  word  March  as  audibly  as  they  did  in  the  cave  of 
J2olus.  April  falls  from  the  tongue  like  silver  rain.  AVI i at 
name  but  May  could  be  fitly  given  to  that  beautiful,  blue- 
eyed,  and  exquisitely  feminine  month  ?  June,  sounded  with 
the  proper  depth  of  tone,  is  exactly  like  the  humming  of 
bees.  The  wings  of  millions  of  insects  and  the  rustle  of 
innumerable  leaves  may  be  found  in  the  w^ords  July  and 
August.  September  whistles  through  more  than  its  initial  let 
ter  like  an  autumnal  gale.  October  has  a  royal  soundj  that 
fills  the  mouth  like  Napoleon  or  Plantagenet.  It  is  a  name 
worthy  of  that  imperial  month,  whose  gorgeous  sunsets  and 
magnificent  woods  indicate  its  supremacy  both  in  earth  and 
sky.  We  have  Burns'  authority  for  asserting  that  '•Novem 
ber  chill  blows  loud  with  angry  sough.'  Lastly,  he  to  whom 
the  mere  syllables  of  December,  January  and  February  do 
not  suggest  all  that  belongs  to  Winter — its  cheerful  firesides 
as  well  as  its  ice  and  snowr — lacks  the  organ  we  address. 

"With  this  fancy  in  our  head,  we  often  wonder  how  those 
people  feel  who  leave  this  country  or  England  for  the  South 
Temperate  zone.  Surely,  when  they  '  see  roses  in  Decem 
ber,  ice  in  June,'  they  must  undergo  a  moral  sensation 
equivalent  to  the  bodily  one  produced  by  standing  on  one's 
head." 

In  the  winter  of  1866  I  again  heard  from  him. 

"COLUMBIA,  Nov.  19/fi,  1866. 
UMY  DEAR  P : — Your  letter  found  me  a  scribe  in  the 


52  MEMOIR   OF  HENRY  TIMROD. 

Governor's  Office,  where  I  work  every  day  from  9  A.M.  to 
7  P.M.  I  snatch  a  moment  from  my  labor  to  answer  your 
note.  Yes ;  I  have  had  a  sad  and  hard  struggle  of  it  for  the 
past  six  months,  but  just  as  I  was  about  to  despair  of  help 
from  God  or  man,  I  received  from  Governor  Orr  a  temporary 
appointment  as  an  assistant  secretary,  or  rather,  clerk.  The 
appointment  is  but  for  a  month  or  so,  in  order  to  get  through 
a  certain  amount  of  work  which  crowds  upon  the  depart 
ment  at  this  time.  It  ensures  me,  however,  a  month"1  s  supply 
of  bread  and  bacon;  that  devoured,  I'll  trust  in  God  that 
something  else  will  turn  up.  This  last  is  no  conventional 
remark.  I  am  really  learning,  P -,  to  trust  in  God  ! 

"My  health  is  very  wretched.  The  doctors  prescribe 
change  of  air,  but,  of  course,  that  remedy  is  impossible  at 
present.  Both  on  this  account,  and  to  shake  hands  once 
more  with  you,  old  friend  and  true  heart,  I  should  like  to 
accept  the  invitation  to  your  home. 

"But  here  I  must  stay  like  a  lugubrious  fowl,  to  scratch 
for  corn.  I  shall,  however,  keep  your  invitation  in  memory, 
and  as  soon  as  practicable,  be  assured,  I  will  gladly  take  a 
turn  or  two  upon  your  cot  in  the  country. 

"You  say  nothing  about  Mrs.  H ,  and  your  boy, 

Willie!  Ah,  how  ineffably  dear  that  name  has  become  to 
me  now.  He  (my  own  lost  Willie)  was  the  sweetest  child. 
But  every  body  thought  him  too  ethereal  to  live,  even  when 
he  seemed  in  the  most  perfect  health !  " 

In  the  January  of  1867,  Timrod,  addressing  his  friend, 
Judge  Bryan,  says :  ' '  My  term  of  service  in  the  Executive 
office  ended  at  the  close  of  the  session.  It  was  no  child's 
play.  On  two  occasions  I  wrote  from  10  o'clock  one  morning 
until  the  sunrise  of  the  next  day  (a  brief  intermission  for  dinner 
being  allowed). 


MEMOIR  OF  HENRY  TIM  ROD.  53 

"  A  laborious  life,  yet  not  half  so  laborious,  after  all,  as 
having  nothing  to  do ! 

"  The  wages  of  the  office  I  held  barely  sufficed  to  feed  our 
family.  We  had  still  to  depend  upon  the  sale  of  furniture 
and  plate  for  rent.  On  the  24th  we  must  perforce  leave  the 
house  we  now  occupy.  Tm  looking  for  a  small  hole  to  squeeze 
ourselves  in  !  " 

A  flitting  glimpse  of  hope  had,  some  months  before, 
beguiled  him  in  the  shape  of  an  invitation  from  the  pub 
lisher,  Mr.  Richardson,  then  on  a  visit  to  the  South,  to 
leave  his  home  troubles  awhile,  and  to  become  his  (Mr.  R.'s) 
guest  in  New  York  city.  Something,  too,  was  rather  vaguely 
said  of  the  Publisher's  willingness  to  undertake  an  edition 
of  a  few  of  Timrod's  selected  poems ;  but  the  chronic  im- 
pecuniosity  of  the  latter  made  void  the  whole  plan  as  soon 
almost  as  conceived.  I  can  never  cease  to  regret  this ;  for 
had  Timrod  made  the  personal  acquaintance  of  some  among 
the  New  York  and  Boston  Literati,  it  is  quite  possible  that 
his  fate  would  have  been  wholly  different.  Such  high 
hearted  men  as  Bryant,  Whipple,  Holmes,  and  Whittier, 
would  have  recognized  equally  the  genius  of  the  man,  and 
his  modest  worth  and  purity  of  temperament.  Some  bene 
ficent  suggestion,  some  practical  help  might  have  reached 
him  from  them ;  since  the  fact  that  in  a  special  sense  he  was 
the  poet  of  his  section,  could  have  weighed  in  their  estima 
tion  but  little  against  the  claims  of  his  intellect,  his  cha 
racter,  and,  I  may  add,  his  undeserved  misfortunes.  *  *  * 

In  the  April  of  1867  I  received  a  note  from  my  friend  in 
which  he  says  that  my  long-standing  invitation  to  the  country 
would  soon  be  answered  by  him  personally.  "  Our  watchful 
Doctor,"  he  proceeds,  "has  been  urging  me  more  persist 
ently  than  ever  to  change  the  air.  I  shall  obey  him.  You 
tempt  me,  dear  P ,  not  only  with  your  light,  bracing, 


54  MEMOIR  OF  HENRY  TIMROD. 

aromatic  pine-land  atmosphere — the  very  thing  I  need — and 
with  the  happy  prospect  of  your  own  society,  but  you  speak 
of  the  publishers  sending  you  their  new  fooks!  You  can 
afford  to  put  up  with  what  Mr.  Simms  really  appears  to  con 
sider  appetizing  fare,  so  unctuously  does  he  refer  to  it  (I 
mean  '  hog  and  hominy ')  if,  mean  time,  instead  of  having 
your  imagination  starved,  it  (or  she  ?)  is  free  to  wander  in 
fresh  literary  pastures. 

' '  Apropos  of  literature  and  rhymsters,  I  have  lately  had  a 
modest  request  preferred  me  by  a  committee  of  Richmond 
ladies,  intent  upon  establishing  a  Bazaar,  or  something,  in 
that  city.  It  was,  to  write  within  a  fortnight,  a  poem  on 
the  history  of  '  Fort  Sumter, '  beginning  with  the  shot  at  the 
'  STAR  OF  THE  WEST,  '  and  ending  with  the  elevation  of  the 
United  States  flag  over  the  ruins  of  the  Fort ! !  This  poem  I 
was  further  requested  to  make  long  enough  to  fill  eighty 
printed  octavo  pages,  or — it  was  obligingly  qualified — less!! 
Need  I  say  that  I  respectfully  declined  to  undertake  the 
task?" 

In  less  than  a  week  the  poet  himself  had  followed  his 
letter.  He  found  me  with  my  family,  established  in  a  crazy 
wooden  shanty,  dignified  as  a  cottage,  near  the  track  of  the 
main  Georgia  Railroad,  and  about  sixteen  miles  from  Au 
gusta.  Our  little  apology  for  a  dwelling  was  perched  on  the 
top  of  a  hill,  overlooking  in  several  directions  hundreds  of 
leagues  of  pine-barren;  there  were,  as  yet,  neither  garden 
nor  enclosure  near  it,  and  a  wilder,  more  desolate,  and 
savage-looking  home,  could  hardly  have  been  seen  east  of 
the  great  prairies.  Hither,  so  to  speak,  had  the  eruption  of 
war  hurled  us ;  for  our  old  residence  on  the  beautiful  Caro 
lina  coast  had  been  destroyed  by  fire;  the  State  of  our 
nativity  was  a  blackened,  smoking  ruin,  and  we  were  con 
sequently  grateful  for  any  shelter,  however  lowly,  in  which 


MEMOIR   OF  HKNRT  TIMROD.  55 

it  was  possible  to  live  at  peace  and  in  freedom !  Human 
hearts  can  be  as  warm  in  a  shanty,  with  leaking  roof  and 
shutterless  windows,  as  in  the  palace  of  the  Doges,  and  in 
the  enthusiasm  of  the  poet's  welcome  we  strove  to  make 
amends  for  the  general  poverty  of  his  accommodations,  and 
a  very  perceptible  coarseness  of  the  cuisine.  But  he,  poor 
fellow,  had  been  the  victim  of  privations  so  much  worse, 
that  he  cared  for  none  of  these  things,  or  rather,  he  pro 
fessed  (with  frequent  deep-drawn  sighs  of  relief),  to  be  per 
fectly  content  in  the  mere  consciousness  of  present  freedom 
from  anxiety. 

A  month's  sojourn  in  our  Robinson  Crusoe  solitude  greatly 
improved  both  his  strength  and  spirits.  Leisure,  saunter- 
ings  through  the  great  balmy  pine  forest,  luxurious  explora 
tions  of  shadowy  glens  and  valleys,  full  of  exquisite  varieties 
of  wild  flowers ;  the  warm,  dry,  delicious  climate  which  in 
vited  him  to  take  his  dolce  far  niente  under  the  boughs  of 
murmuring  trees,  outstretched  upon  a  couch  of  brown  pine- 
needles,  as  elastic  as  it  was  odorous,  all  promised  to  bring 
back  his  poetical  enthusiasm,  and  to  set  in  genial  motion  the 
half  frozen  springs  of  his  invention  and  fancy.  But  his 
term  of  holiday  was  too  limited. 

Circumstances  compelled  his  return  to  the  capital,  and 
there  the  old,  terrible,  destructive  life  of  want  recommenced. 
For  let  it  be  distinctly  and  finally  understood,  that  in  allud 
ing  to  Timrod's  poverty  I  do  not  mean  the  factitious  poverty 
of  your  wrell-to-do  ingrate,  whether  epicure  or  gourmand, 
who,  in  the  midst  of  substantial  plenty,  whimpers  over  a 
lost  paradise  of  venison,  French  pates,  and  champagne,  but 
that  frequent  actual  lack  of  food,  those  grim  encounters  with  star 
vation,  which  sap  the  life,  chill  the  heart-blood,  madden  the 
brain!  ******* 

*     *     *     In  the  latter  summer-tide  of  this  same  year,  I 


56  MEMOIR   OF  HENRT  TIMROD. 

again  persuaded  him  to  visit  me.  Ah!  how  sacred,  now, 
how  sad  and  sweet  are  the  memories  of  that  rich,  clear, 
prodigal  August  of  '67 ! 

We  would  rest  on  the  hill-sides,  in  the  swaying  golden 
shadows,  watching  together  the  Titanic  masses  of  snow- 
white  clouds  which  floated  slowly  and  vaguely  through  the 
sky,  suggesting  by  their  form,  whiteness,  and  serene  motion, 
despite  the  season,  flotillas  of  icebergs  upon  Arctic  seas. 
Like  lazzaroni  we  basked  in  the  quiet  noons,  sunk  into 
depths  on  depths  of  reverie,  or  perhaps  of  yet  more  ' '  charm 
ed  sleep."  Or  we  smoked,  conversing  lazily  between  the 
puffs, 

"  Next  to  some  pine  whose  antique  roots  just  peeped 
From  out  the  crumbling  bases  of  the  sand." 

But  the  evenings,  with  their  gorgeous  sunsets  "  rolling 
down  like  a  chorus,"  and  the  "gray-eyed  melancholy  gloam 
ing,"  were  the  favorite  hours  of  the  day  with  him.  He 
would  often  apostrophize  twilight  in  the  language  of  Words 
worth's  sonnet : 

"  Hail,  twilight !  sovereign  of  one  peaceful  hour  1 
Not  dull  art  thou  as  undiscerniug  night ; 
But  only  studious  to  remove  from  sight 
Day's  mutable  distinctions." 

"Yes,"  said  he,  "  she  is  indeed  the  sovereign  of  one  peace 
ful  hour !  In  the  hardest,  busiest  time,  one  feels  the  calm, 
merciful-minded  queen  stealing  upon  one  in  the  fading  light, 
and  '  whispering, '  as  Ford  has  it  (or  is  it  Fletcher  ?)  '  whis 
pering  tranquility!  " 

When  in-doors,  and  disposed  to  read,  he  took  much 
pleasure  in  perusing  the  poems  of  Robert  Buchanan  and  Miss 
Tngelow.  The  latter's  Ballads  particularly  delighted  him. 


MEMOIR  OF  HENRY  TIMROD.  57 

One,  written  "in  the  old  English  manner,"  he  quickly 
learned  by  heart,  repeating  it  with  a  relish  and  fervor  inde 
scribable. 

Here  is  the  opening  stanza : 

"  Come  out  and  hear  the  waters   shoot,  the  owlet  hoot,  the 

owlet  hoot ; 
Yon  crescent  moon,  a  golden  boat,  hangs  dim  behind  the 

tree, O ! 
The  dropping  thorn  makes  white  the  grass,  O  !  sweetest  lass, 

and  sweetest  lass 
Come  out  and  smell  the  ricks  of  hay  adown  the  croft  with 

me,  0 ! " 

With  but  a  slight  effort  of  memory  I  can  vividly  recall  his 
voice  and  manner  in  repeating  these  simple  yet  beautiful 
lines. 

They  were  the  last  verses  I  ever  heard  from  the  poet's 
lips. 

Just  as  the  woods  were  assuming  their  first  delicate  au 
tumnal  tints,  Timrod  took  his  leave  of  us.  In  a  conversa 
tion  on  the  night  but  one  previous  to  his  departure,  we  had 
been  speaking  of  Dr.  Parr  and  other  literary  persons  of  un 
usual  age,  when  he  observed:  "  I  hav'nt  the  slightest  desire, 

P ,  to  be  an  octogenarian,  far  less  a  centenarian,  like  old 

Parr;  but  I  DO  hope  that  I  may  be  spared  until  I  &m  fifty  or 
fifty-five." 

"  About  Shakespeare's  age,"  I  suggested. 

"  Oh !  "  he  replied,  smiling,  ' '  I  was  not  thinking  of  THAT  ; 
but  I'm  sure  that  after  fifty-five  I  would  begin  to  wither,  mind 
and  body,  and  one  hates  the  idea  of  a  mummy,  intellectual 
or  physical.  Do  you  remember  that  picture  of  extreme  old 
age  which  Charles  Heade  gives  us  in  '  Never  too  Late  to 
Mendf  George  Fielding,  the  hero,  is  about  going  away 


58  MEMOIR   OF  HENRY  TIMROD. 

from  England  to  try  his  luck  in  Australia.  All  his  friends 
and  relations  are  around  him,  expressing  their  sorrow  at  his 
enforced  voyage ;  all  but  his  grandfather,  aged  ninety-two, 
who  sits  stolid  and  mumbling  in  his  arm-chair. 

"' Grandfather !' shouts  George  into  the  deafened  ears, 
'I'm  going  a  long  journey;  mayhap,  shall  never  see  you 
again ;  speak  a  word  to  me  before  I  go ! '  Grandfather  looks 
up,  brightens  for  a  moment,  and  cackles  feebly  out,  '  George, 
fetch  me  some  snuff  from  where  you're  going.  See  now 
(half  whimpering),  I'm  out  of  snuff.'  A  good  point  in  the 
way  of  illustration,  but  not  a  pleasant  picture." 

On  the  13th  of  September,  ten  days  after  Timrod's  return 
to  Columbia,  he  wrote  me  the  following  note : 

* '  DEAR  P :  I  have  been  too  sick  to  write  before,  and 

am  still  too  sick  to  drop  you  more  than  a  few  lines.  You 
will  be  surprised  and  pained  to  hear  that  I  have  had  a  severe 
hemorrhage  of  the  lungs.  It  came  upon  me  without  a 
moment's  warning,  my  mouth  being  filled  with  blood  while 
I  was  listening  to  Wm.  Talley  talking. 

"  I  did  not  come  home  an  instant  too  soon.  I  found  them 
without  money  or  provisions.*  Fortunately,  I  brought  with 
me  a  small  sum — I  won't  tell  you  how  small — but  six  dol 
lars  of  it  was  from  the  editor  of  the  '  Opinion, '  for  my  last 
poem.  *  *  * 

"I  left  your  climate  to  my  injury.     But  not  only  for  the 

*  When  one  thinks  how  little — how  very  little  of  the  "  world's 
gear"  would  have  served  to  make  this  most  unexacting  of  mortals 
content,  nay,  happy!  there  is  something  in  the  dogged  persist 
ence  and  cruel  energy  of  the  fate  which  harassed  and  wounded 
him  along  almost  every  yard  of  his  rugged  life-path,  that  resem 
bled  the  virulence  of  a  Greek  Nemesis,  rather  than  the  chastenings 
of  a  benignant  Providence. 


MEMOIR  OF  HENRY  TIMROD.  59 

sake  of  my  health,  I  begin  already  to  look  back  with  longing 
regret  to  'Copse  Hill.'  You  have  all  made  me  feel  as  if  I 
had  two  beloved  homes! 

' '  I  wish  that  I  could  divide  myself  between  them ;  or  that 
I  had  wings,  so  that  I  might  flit  from  one  to  other  in  a  mo 
ment. 

"I  hope  soon  to  write  you  at  length.     Yours,  etc." 

Again  on  the  16th  I  heard  from  him,  thus : 

"Yesterday  I  had  a  still  more  copious  hemorrhage!  It 
occurred  in  the  street — the  blood  came  in  jets  from  my 
mouth ;  you  might  have  tracked  me  home  in  crimson ! 

' '  I  am  lying  supine  in  bed,  forbidden  to  speak,  or  make 
any  exertion  whatever.  But  I  can't  resist  the  temptation  of 
dropping  you  a  line,  in  the  hope  of  calling  forth  a  score  01 
two  from  you  in  return. 

' '  An  awkward  time  this  for  me  to  be  sick !  We  are  desti 
tute  of  funds,  almost  of  food.  But  God  will  provide! 

"  I  send  you  a  Sonnet,  written  the  other  day,  as  an  Obituary 
for  Mr.  Harris  Simons.  Tell  me  what  you  think  of  it — be 
sure!  Love  to  your  mother,  wife,  and  my  precious  Willie" 
(since  the  death  of  his  own  child,  he  had  turned  with  a 
yearning  affection  to  my  boy).  ' '  Let  me  hear  from  you  soon 
— vert/ soon !  You'll  do  me  more  good  than  medicines !  "  etc. 

The  Bonnet  he  mentions  is  here  before  me,  written  in  pen 
cil  on  a  scant  fragment  of  paper,  but  in  a  calligraphy  clear 
and  bold  as  ever : 


IN  MEMORIAM— HARRIS  SIMONS. 

"  True  Christian,  tender  husband,  gentle  sire, 
A  stricken  household  mourns  thee,  but  its  loss 
Is  Heaven's  gain  and  thine ;  upon  the  cross 


60  MEMOIR   OF  HENRY  TIMROD. 

God  hangs  the  crown,  the  pinion,  and  the  lyre  ; 
And  thou  hast  won  them  all.     Could  we  desire 

To  quench  that  diadem's  celestial  light  ; 

To  hush  thy  song  and  stay  thy  heavenward  flight, 
Because  we  miss  thee  by  this  autumn  fire  ? 
Ah,  no  !  ah,  no  ! — chant  on  ! — soar  on  ! — reign  on  1 

For  we  are  better — thou  art  happier  thus  ! 
And  haply  from  the  splendor  of  thy  throne, 

Or  haply  from  the  echoes  of  thy  psalm, 

Something  may  fall  upon  us,  like  the  calm 
To  which  thou  shalt  hereafter  welcome  us ! " 

Reading  these  lines,  no  shadow  of  a  presentiment  oppressed 
ine.  I  simply  admired  the  art  of  the  Sonnet,  and  its  tender 
Christian  feeling,  unconscious  that  another  "  In  Memoriam" 
would  soon  be  called  for,  steeped  in  the  bitterness  of  an  irre 
mediable  grief ! 

On  the  25th  of  the  month  this  confidence  in  Tiuirod's  re 
covery  was  confirmed  by  a  letter  from  Mrs.  Goodwin. 

"Our  brother,"  she  writes,  "is  decidedly  better;  and  if 
there  be  no  recurrence  of  the  hemorrhage,  will,  I  hope,  be 
soon  convalescent! " 

A  week  and  upwards  passed  on  in  silence.  I  received  no 
more  communications  from  Columbia.  But  early  in  October 
a  vaguely  threatening  report  reached  my  ears.  On  the  9th 
it  was  mournfully  confirmed.  Forty-eight  hours  before, 
Henry  Timrod  had  expired! 

The  circumstances  attendant  upon  his  last  illness  and  death, 
are  related  by  his  sister  in  terms  at  once  so  graphically  minute, 
and  so  tenderly  pathetic,  that  I  cannot  but  feel  justified  in 
laying  the  letter — although  a  private  one — before  my  readers. 

"  Alas  !  alas  !  in  every  tremulous  line 
We  see  but  heartbreak  and  the  touch  of  tears  1 " 


MEMOIR   OF  HENRY  TIMROD.  01 

"  COLUMBIA,  October  22rZ,  1867. 
"  MY  DEAR  FRIEND  : 

u  You  are,  I  know,  anxiously  awaiting  the  particulars  of 
those  last  sad  d^s ! 

"Painful  as  the  effort  is,  I  feel  that  to  you,  his  dearest 
friend,  I  ought  at  once  to  write. 

' '  You  will  remember  that  my  last  letter  was  scarcely  as 
hopeful  as  the  former  had  been.*  Hal's  apprehension  of  an 
other  hemorrhage  seemed  to  increase.  Each  cough  he  gave, 
I  saw  the  look  of  uneasiness  on  his  face,  and  each  cough  sent 
a  thrill  of  terror  to  my  heart! 

"  The  idea  that  he  was  to  choice  to  death  by  a  sudden  rush 
of  blood  from  the  lungs,  haunted  him  like  a  spectre  ;  no 
persuasions  could  induce  him  to  believe  that  there  was  really 
no  danger. 

"  His  fears,  alas!  proved  but  too  sure  premonitions  of  the 
truth.  On  Wednesday  morning  (2d  of  October),  at  two 
o'clock,  I  was  roused  to  witness  once  more  the  life  stream 
flowing  from  his  lips,  while  every  instant  respiration  became 
more  difficult. 

' '  The  hemorrhage,  however,  was  soon  checked,  but  its 
effect  on  his  nervous  system  was  fatal!  He  never  rallied 
again ! 

' '  Doctors  Gibbes  and  Talley  spent  hours  by  his  bedside,  en 
deavoring  by  every  human  means  to  arrest  the  progress  of  the 
disease ;  but  pneumonic  symptoms  made  their  appearance,  and 
hope  was  gone ! 

"On  Friday  morning  Dr.  Gibbes  said,  'Mr.  Timrod,  I 
think  it  my  duty  to  tell  you  that  I  can  see  no  chance  of  your 
recovery ! '  Never  shall  I  forget  the  fearfully  startled  ex 
pression  of  my  brother's  face  at  this  announcement.  After 

*  This  note  miscarried. 


62  MEMOIR   OF  HENRY  TIMROD. 

the  Doctor  went,  he  said  to  me,  '  And  is  this  to  be  the  enti 
of  all — so  soon!  so  soon!  and  I  have  achieved  so  little  !  I 
thought  to  have  done  so  much !  I  had  just  before  my  first 
attack  fallen  into  a  strain  of  such  pure  and*delicate  fancies. 
I  do  think  this  winter  I  would  have  done  more  than  I  have  ever 
done ;  yes,  I  should  have  written  more  purely,  and  with  a 
greater  delicacy.  And  then  I  have  loved  you  all  so  much ! 
Oh!  how  can  I  leave  you? ' 

"A  little  while  after  he  said,  'Do  you  not  think  I  could 
will  to  live  ? '  adding  with  a  smile,  '  I  might  make  an  effort, 
like  Mrs.  Dombey,  you  know !  ' 

"And  indeed,  so  resolutely  did  he  seem  to  combat  with 
the  powers  of  Death,  that  the  rest  of  that  day  (Friday)  he 
appeared  to  grow  stronger,  and  the  symptoms  were  more 
favorable ;  so  much  more  so,  in  fact,  that  both  physicians,  at 
night,  pronounced  a  change  for  the  better. 

' '  Captain  Hugh  Thompson  sat  up  with  him  that  night,  I 
bearing  him  company.  He  begged  us  to  talk,  saying  he  liked 
to  hear  our  voices ;  and  in  the  morning  observed,  '  I  have 
enjoyed  this  night ;  I  slept  when  I  wanted,  and  listened  when 
Hiked.' 

"  I  must  not  omit  to  say,  that  from  the  first  serious  hemor 
rhage  his  mind  turned  to  religious  subjects,  and  that  the  New 
Testament  was  always  near  his  pillow.  He  would  every  now 
and  then  ask  me  to  read  a  chapter  from  the  Gospels,  and  to 
pray  with  him. 

"  On  Saturday  morning  he  seemed  cheerful,  and  even  san 
guine  ;  but  in  the  afternoon  the  great  pain  in  his  side,  and 
difficulty  of  breathing,  returned.  He  requested  the  subcu 
taneous  injection  of  a  portion  of  morphine.  This  had  given 
him  relief  several  times  before.  It  was  done,  and  he  fell  into 
a  gentle  sleep. 

"I  sat  up  with  him  again,  intending  to  call  his  wife  to- 


MEMOIR  OF  HENRY  TIM  ROD.  G3 

take  my  place  at  two  o'clock;  but  at  two  he  awoke,  and  OI 
God!  that  awakening! 

"It  was  the  commencement  of  the  last  struggle.  The 
strongest  convulsions  shook  his  already  worn-out  frame. 
To  listen  to  those  groans — those  shrieks,  was  unutterable 
horror ! — was  agony  untold !  For  hours  the  struggle  lasted, 
and  then  came  for  a  space  partial  quiet  and  consciousness. 
He  knew  that  he  was  dying.  '  Oh ! '  I  murmured  to  him, 
'you  will  soon  be  at  rest  NOW.'  'Yes,'  he  replied,  in  a  tone 
so  mournful,  it  seemed  the  wail  of  a  life-time  of  desolation ; 
'  yes,  my  sister,  l)ut  love  is  sweeter  than  rest !  ' 

"In  the  early  hush  of  that  Sabbath  morning,  he  for  the 
first  time  commemorated  the  love  and  sufferings  of  our 
ascended  Lord ;  the  Holy  Communion  having  been  adminis 
tered  to  him  by  a  clergyman  of  our  church. 

"  Most  strange,  solemn,  and  sad  was  the  sight  to  those  who 
stood  about  his  death-bed.  He  looked  upon  the  struggle  of 
life  and  death  as  if  from  the  position  of  an  earnest  but  out 
side  observer.  Once  he  said,  '  And  so  THIS  is  Death !  the 
struggle  has  come  at  last.  It  is  curious  to  watch  it.  It  ap 
pears  like  two  tides — two  tides  advancing  and  retreating, 
these  powers  of  Life  and  Death !  Now  the  power  of  Death 
recedes;  but  wait,  it  will  advance  again  triumphant.'  Then, 
with  a  look  of  eager,  yet  hushed  expectation,  he  seemed  to 
watch  the  conflict. 

"Again  he  said,  'So  this  is  Death!  how  strange!  were  I 
a  metaphysician  I  would  analyze  it ;  but  as  it  is,  I  can  only 
watch.' 

"Words  fail  to  describe  the  awful  solemnity  with  which 
these  dying  words  of  the  poet  impressed  all  who  heard  him. 
Everybody  was  in  tears. 

"  Once,  turning  to  me,  he  asked,  '  Do  you  remember  that 
little  poem  of  mine  ? 


64  MEMOIR  OF  HENRY  TIMROD. 

'  "  Somewhere  on  this  earthly  planet 
In  the  dust  of  flowers  to  ~be, 
In  the  dew-drop  and  the  sunshine 
Waits  a  solemn  hour  for  me."  ' 

il  '  Yes,'  I  replied,  '  and  now  that  hour,  which  then  seemed 
so  far  away,  has  come.' 

' '  Often  he  would  fold  his  arms,  and  repeat  two  lines  of  his 
favorite  hymn: 

'  Jesus,  lover  of  my  soul/  etc. 

"At  every  conscious  interval  his  prayers  to  our  atoning 
Lord  were  unceasing. 

' '  During  the  earlier  part  of  the  last  night  he  slept  for 
many  hours.  Awaking,  he  missed  me,  and  asked  that  I 
should  be  called.  On  my  going  to  him,  he  said,  '  Well, 
Emily,  I  am  really  dying  now,  but  my  trust  is  in  Christ.' 
Then  quoting  those  lines  of  Milton,  '  Death  rides  triumphant, ' 
etc.,  he  added,  '  Oh,  may  I  be  able  to  say,  thanks  be  to  God 
who  giveth  us  the  victory  through  our  Lord  Jesus  Christ/ 

' '  An  unquenchable  thirst  consumed  him.  Nothing  could 
allay  that  dreadful  torture.  He  whispered,  as  I  placed  the 
water  to  his  lips,  '  Don't  you  remember  that  passage  I  once 
quoted  to  you  from  "  King  John?  "  I  had  always  such  a  hor 
ror  of  quenchless  thirst,  and  now  I  suffer  it ! '  He  alluded  to 
the  passage — 

"  And  none  of  you  will  let  the  Winter  come, 
To  thrust  his  icy  fingers  in  my  maw  ! " 

"Just  a  day  or  two  before  he  left  on  a  visit  to  you  at 
'  Copse  Hill, '  in  one  of  our  evening  rambles  he  had  repeated . 
the  passage  to  me  with  a  remark  on  the  extraordinary  force 
of  the  words. 


MEMOIR   OF  HENRY  TIMROD.  05 

"Katie  took  my  place  by  him  at  5  o'clock  (in  tne  morn 
ing),  and  never  again  left  his  side.  The  last  spoonful  of 
water  she  gave  him,  he  could  not  swallow.  '  Never  mind, ' 
he  said,  '  I  shall  soon  drink  of  the  river  of  Eternal  Life. ' 

"  Shortly  after  he  slept  peacefully  in  Christ. 

"He  died  at  the  very  hour  which,  years  ago,  he  had  pre 
dicted  would  be  his  death-hour.  The  whisper,  '  He  is  gone! ' 
went  forth  as  '  day  purpled  in  tlie  zenith!  '  "  etc.,  etc. 

On  the of  October,  the  mortal  remains  of  the  poet, 

so  worn  and  shattered,  were  buried  in  the  cemetery  of  Trinity 
Church,  Columbia. 

There,  in  the  ruined  capital  of  his  native  State,  whence 
scholarship,  culture,  and  social  purity  have  been  banished  to 
give  place  to  the  orgies  of  semi-barbarians  and  the  political 
trickery  of  adventurers  and  traitors — there,  tranquil  amid 
the  vulgar  turmoil  of  factions,  reposes  the  dust  of  one  of  the 
truest  and  sweetest  singers  this  country  has  given  to  the 
world. 

Nature,  kinder  to  his  senseless  ashes  than  ever  Fortune 
had  been  to  the  living  man,  is  prodigal  around  his  grave — 
unmarked  and  unrecorded  though  it  be — of  her  flowers  and 
verdant  grasses,  of  her  rains  that  fertilize,  and  her  purifying 
dews.  The  peace  he  loved,  and  so  vainly  longed  for  through 
stormy  years,  has  crept  to  him  at  last,  but  only  to  fall  upon 
the  pallid  eyelids,  closed  forever — upon  the  pulseless  limbs 
and  the  breathless,  broken  heart !  Still  it  is  good  to  know 
that— 

"  After  life's  fitful  fever,  he  sleeps  well." 

Yet,  from  this  mere  material  repose,  this  quiet  of  decaying 
atoms,  surely  the  most  sceptical  of  thinkers,  in  contempla 
tion  of  such  a  life,  and  such  a  death,  must  instinctively  look 


06  MEMOIR  OF  HENRY  TIMROD. 

from  earth  to  heaven ;  from  the  bruised  and  mouldering  clod 
to  the  spirit  infinitely  exalted,  and  radiant  in  redemption, 

"  A  calm,  a  beautiful,  a  sacred  star," 

thus  imagining,  and  perchance  believing,  though  it  be  but 
for  an  hour,  in  the  mysterious  ameliorations  of  eternity ! 
•x-         *         #        #        *        *         ** 

Were  one  to  sum  up  the  idiosyncrasies  of  Timrod's  genius 
and  poetic  manner,  I  think  it  would  be  just  to  notice  in  the 
first  place,  the  simplicity,  clearness,  purity,  and  straight 
forward  force  of  his  imagination,  which  within  its  appointed 
bounds  (and  these  limitations  are  as  strictly  marked  as  its 
vivid  capabilities  themselves)  is  always  a  true  enchanter, 
not  owning  the  slightest  relation  to  that  mechanical  faculty, 
so  commonly  confounded  with  imagination,  which,  instead 
of  evolving  its  material  out  of  the  heart  of  its  own  electric 
being,  is  content  to  work /Vow  without,  piling  up  a  tedious  cat 
alogue  of  qualities,  whether  its  attempts  be  directed  towards 
description  merely,  or  towards  the  subtleties  of  spiritual 
analysis.  Thus  it  happens  that  Timrod's  productions  carry 
with  them  always  "a  firm  body  of  thought."  They  do  not 
appeal,  like  too  many  of  Edgar  Poe's,  to  our  sense  of  rhythmic 
harmony  alone;  nor  are  they  charming,  but  mystic  utter 
ances,  which  here  and  there  may  strike  a  vaguely  solemn 
I  echo  in  the  heart  of  the  visionary  dreamer. 
\  No!  beneath  the  surface  of  his  delicate  imagery,  and 
Rhythmic  sweetness  of  numbers,  rest  deeply  imbedded  the 
^golden  ores  of  wisdom." 

As  an  artist,  he  fulfilled  one  of  Coleridge's  many  definitions 
of  poetry  ("the  best  words  in  the  best  order  "),  with  a  tact 
as  exquisite  as  it  was  unerring.  And  his  style  is  literally  1dm- 
sclf !  "It  has  the  form,  and  follows  the  movement  of  his 


MEMOIR  OF  HENRY  TIMROD.  67 

nature,  and  is  shaped  into  the  expression  of  the  exact 
mood,  sentiment,  or  thought  out  of  which  the  poem  springs. 
Therefore  his  compositions — with  all  their  elegance,  finish, 
and  superb  propriety  of  diction — always  leave  the  impression 
of  having  been  forw,  not  manufactured  or  made." 

His  morale  is  perfect.  What  can  speak  more  emphatically 
for  the  native  soundness,  wholesoineness,  and  untainted 
virility  of  his  genius,  than  the  absence  from  his  works  of  all 
morbid  arraignments  of  the  Eternal  justice  or  mercy  ;  all 
blasphemous  hardihood  and  whining  complaint — in  a  word, 
all  Byronism  of  sentiment,  despite  the  ceaseless  trials  of  his 
individual  experience,  his  sorrows,  humiliations,  and  corrod 
ing  want. 

While  other  poets,  "the  curled  darlings  of  Fortune," 
were,  like  Master  Stephen,  deliberately  procuring  ' '  stools  to 
be  melancholy  upon,"  ostentatiously  showing  themselves 
"sad  as  Night  for  very  wantonness, "  he  whose  pains  were 
only  too  real,  into  whose  soul  the  iron  had  deeply  entered, 
could  forget  himself  in  his  divine  art,  and  sing  for  us  many 
a  strain  as  fresh  and  breezy  as  the  west  wind  ' '  laden  with 
woodland  fragrance,"  as  healthfully  inspiriting  as  the  breath 
of  a  May  morning! 

There  were  likewise  in  his  intellect  and  temperament,  to 
appear  occasionally  in  his  verses,  a  certain  arch,  Ariel-like 
humor  and  delightful  playfulness  of  fancy.  His  little  poem 
of  "  Baby's  Age,"  his  "  Preceptor  Amat, "  etc.,  indicate  a  vein 
of  sentiment  genial,  sportive  and  airy,  that  might,  under 
favorable  auspices,  have  been  developed  into  many  kindred 
pieces  of  a  gay  fanciful  humor,  calculated  to  relieve  the  per 
vading  earnestness  of  his  general  style  of  composition  and 
reflection. 

I  cannot  more  fitly  close  this  imperfect  sketch,  than  with 
Dr.  Bruns'  graphic  description  of  Timrod's  personal  appear- 


08  MEMOIR  OF  HENRY  TIMROD. 

ance,  and  of  some   prominent   traits   of   his  social  charac 
ter: 

"  In  stature,"  he  says,  "  Tirnrod  was  far  below  the  medium 
height.  He  had  always  excelled  in  boyish  sports,  and  as  he 
grew  to  manhood,  his  unusual  breadth  of  shoulder  still  seemed 
to  indicate  a  physical  vigor  which  the  slender  wrists,  thin, 
transparent  hands,  and  habitually  lax  attitude,  but  too  plainly 
contradicted. 

"The  square  jaw  was  almost  stern  in  its  strongly  pro 
nounced  lines,  the  mouth  large,  the  lips  exquisitely  sensitive, 
the  gray  eyes  set  deeply  under  massive  brows,  and  full  of  a 
melancholy  and  pleading  tenderness,  which  attracted  atten 
tion  to  his  face  at  once,  as  the  face  of  one  who  had  thought 
and  suffered  much. 

' '  His  walk  was  quick'  and  nervous,  with  an  energy  in  it 
that  betokened  decision  of  character,  but  illy  sustained  by 
the  stammering  speech ;  for  in  society  he  was  the  shyest  and 
most  undemonstrative  of  men.  To  a  single  friend  whom  he 
trusted,  he  would  pour  out  his  inmost  heart ;  but  let  two  or 
three  be  gathered  together,  above  all,  introduce  a  stranger, 
and  he  instantly  became  a  quiet,  unobtrusive  listener,  though 
never  a  moody,  or  uncongenial  one ! 

"  Among  men  of  letters,  he  was  always  esteemed  as  a  most 
sympathetic  companion;  timid,  reserved,  unready  if  taken 
by  surprise,  but  highly  cultivated,  and  still  more  highly  en 
dowed. 

' '  The  key  to  his  social  character  was  to  be  found  in  the 
feminine  gentleness  of  his  temperament.  He  shrank  from 
noisy  debate,  and  the  wordy  clash  of  argument,  as  from  a 
blow !  It  stunned  and  bewildered  him,  and  left  him  in  the 
mi-lie  alike  incapable  of  defence  or  attack.  And  yet,  when 
some  burly  protagonist  would  thrust  himself  too  rudely  into 
the  ring,  and  try  to  bear  down  opposition  by  sheer  vehemence 


MEMOIR   OF  HENRY  TIMROD.  69 

of  declamation,  from  the  corner  where  he  sat  ensconced  in 
unregarded  silence,  he  would  suddenly  sling  out  some  sharp, 
sir  (ft  pebble  of  thought,  which  he  had  been  slowly  rounding, 
and  smite  with  an  aim  so  keen  and  true  as  rarely  failed  to 
bring  down  the  boastful  Anakim  1  " 


DEDICATION. 

TO   K.   S.   G. 

Fair  Saxon,  in  my  lover's  creed, 

My  love  were  smaller  than  your  meed, 

And  you  might  justly  deem  it  slight, 

As  wanting  truth  as  well  as  sight, 

If,  in  that  image  which  is  shrined 

Where  thoughts  are  sacred,  you  could  find 

A  single  charm,  or  more  or  less, 

Than  you  to  all  kind  eyes  possess. 

To  me,  even  in  the  happiest  dreams, 

Where,  flushed  with  love's  just  dawning  gleams, 

My  hopes  their  radiant  wings  unfurl, 

You're  but  a  simple  English  girl, 

No  fairer,  grace  for  grace  arrayed, 

Than  many  a  simple  Southern  maid ; 

With  faults  enough  to  make  the  good 

Seem  sweeter  far  than  else  it  would ; 

Frank  in  your  anger  and  your  glee, 

And  true  as  English  natures  be, 

Yet  not  without  some  maiden  art 

Which  hides  a  loving  English  heart. 

Still  there  are  moments,  brief  and  bright, 
When  fancy,  by  a  poet's  light, 


72  DEDICATION. 

Beholds  you  clothed  with  loftier  charms 

Than  love  e'er  gave  to  mortal  arms. 

A  spell  is  woven  on  the  air 

From  your  brown  eyes  and  golden  hair, 

And  all  at  once  you  seem  to  stand 

Before  me  as  your  native  land, 

With  all  her  greatness  in  your  guise, 

And  all  her  glory  in  your  eyes ; 

And  sometimes,  as  if  angels  sung, 

I  hear  her  poets  on  your  tongue. 

And,  therefore,  I,  who  from  a  boy 

Have  felt  an  almost  English  joy 

In  England's  undecaying  might, 

And  England's  love  of  truth  and  right, 

Next  to  my  own  young  country's  fame 

Holding  her  honor  and  her  name, 

I — who,  though  born  where  not  a  vale 

Hath  ever  nursed  a  nightingale, 

Have  fed  my  muse  with  English  song 

Until  her  feeble  wing  grew  strong — 

Feel,  while  with  all  the  reverence  meet 

I  lay  this  volume  at  your  feet, 

As  if  through  your  dear  self  I  pay, 

For  many  a  deep  and  deathless  lay, 

For  noble  lessons  nobly  taught, 

For  tears,  for  laughter,  and  for  thought, 

A  portion  of  the  mighty  debt 

We  owe  to  Shakespeare's  England  yet ! 


POEMS  or  HENEY  TIMEOD. 


'  KATIE. 

It  may  be  through  some  foreign  grace, 

And  unfamiliar  charm  of  face ; 

It  may  be  that  across  the  foam 

Which  bore  her  from  her  childhood's  home, 

By  some  strange  spell,  my  Katie  brought, 

Along  with  English  creeds  and  thought — 

Entangled  in  her  golden  hair — 

Some  English  sunshine,  warmth,  and  air! 

I  cannot  tell — but  here  to-day, 

A  thousand  billowy  leagues  away 

From  that  green  isle  whose  twilight  skies 

No  darker  are  than  Katie's  eyes, 

She  seems  to  me,  go  where  she  will, 

An  English  girl  in  England  still ! 

I  meet  her  on  the  dusty  street, 
And  daisies  spring  about  her  feet ; 
Or,  touched  to  life  beneath  her  tread, 
An  English  cowslip  lifts  its  head ; 
And,  as  to  do  her  grace,  rise  up 
The  primrose  and  the  buttercup  ! 
4 


74  POEMS  OF  HENRY  TIMROD. 

1  roam  with  her  through  fields  of  cane, 

And  seem  to  stroll  an  English  lane, 

Which,  white  with  blossoms  of  the  May, 

Spreads  its  green  carpet  in  her  way ! 

As  fancy  wills,  the  path  beneath 

Is  golden  gorse,  or  purple  heath : 

And  now  we  hear  in  woodlands  dim 

Their  unarticulated  hymn, 

Now  walk  through  rippling  waves  of  wheat, 

Now  sink  in  mats  of  clover  sweet, 

Or  see  before  us  from  the  lawn 

The  lark  go  up  to  greet  the  dawn  1 

All  birds  that  love  the  English  sky 

Throng  round  my  path  when  she  is  by: 

The  blackbird  from  a  neighboring  thorn 

With  music  brims  the  cup  of  morn, 

And  in  a  thick,  melodious  rain 

The  mavis  pours  her  mellow  strain ! 

But  only  when  my  Katie's  voice 

Makes  all  the  listening  woods  rejoice 

I  hear — with  cheeks  that  flush  and  pale — 

The  passion  of  the  nightingale ! 


Anon  the  pictures  round  her  change, 
And  through  an  ancient  town  we  range, 
Whereto  the  shadowy  memory  clings 
Of  one  of  England's  Saxon  kings, 
And  which  to  shrine  his  fading  fame 
Still  keeps  his  ashes  and  his  name. 


KATIE.  75 

Quaint  houses  rise  on  either  hand, 

But  still  the  airs  are  fresh  and  bland,     <^C> 

As  if  their  gentle  wings  caressed 

Some  new-born  village  of  the  West. 

A  moment  by  the  Norman  tower 

We  pause;  it  is  the  Sabbath  hour! 

And  o'er  the  city  sinks  and  swells 

The  chime  of  old  St.  Mary's  bells, 

Which  still  resound  in  Katie's  ears 

As  sweet  as  when  in  distant  years 

She  beard  them  peal  with  jocund  din 

A  merry  English  Christmas  in  ! 

We  pass  the  abbey's  ruined  arch, 

And  statelier  grows  my  Katie's  march, 

As  round  her.  wearied  with  the  taint 

Of  Transatlantic  pine  and  paint, 

She  sees  a  thousand  tokens  cast 

Of  England's  venerable  Past ! 

Our  reverent  footsteps  lastly  claims 

The  younger  chapel  of  St.  James, 

Which,  though,  as  English  records  run, 

Not  old,  had  seen  full  many  a  sun, 

Ere  to  the  cold  December  gale 

The  thoughtful  Pilgrim  spread  his  sail. 

There  Katie  in  her  childish  days 

Spelt  out  her  prayers  and  lisped  her  praise, 

And  doubtless,  as  her  beauty  grew, 

Did  much  as  other  maidens  do — 

Across  the  pews  and  down  the  aisle 

Sent  many  a  beau-bewildering  smile. 


76  POEMS  OF  HENRY  TIMROD. 

And  to  subserve  her  spirit's  need 

Learned  other  things  beside  the  creed ! 

There,  too,  to-day  her  knee  she  bows, 

And  by  her  one  whose  darker  brows 

Betray  the  Southern  heart  that  burns 

Beside  her,  and  which  only  turns 

Its  thoughts  to  Heaven  in  one  request, 

Not  all  unworthy  to  be  blest, 

But  rising  from  an  earthlier  pain 

Than  might  beseem  a  Christian  fane. 

Ah  !  can  the  guileless  maiden  share 

The  wish  that  lifts  that  passionate  prayer  ? 

Is  all  at  peace  that  breast  within  ? 

Good  angels !  warn  her  of  the  sin ! 

Alas !  what  boots  it  ?  who  can  save 

A  willing  victim  of  the  wave  ? 

Who  cleanse  a  soul  that  loves  its  guilt  ? 

Or  gather  wine  when  wine  is  spilt  ? 


We  quit  the  holy  house  and  gain 
The  open  air ;  then,  happy  twain, 
Adown  familiar  streets  we  go, 
And  now  and  then  she  turns  to  show, 
With  fears  that  all  is  changing  fast, 
Some  spot  that's  sacred  to  her  Past. 
Here  by  this  way,  through  shadows  cool, 
A  little  maid,  she  tripped  to  school ; 
And  there  each  morning  used  to  stop 
Before  a  wonder  of  a  shop 


KATIE.  77 

Where,  built  of  apples  and  of  pears, 
Kose  pyramids  of  golden  spheres ; 
While,  dangling  in  her  dazzled  sight, 
Eipe  cherries  cast  a  crimson  light. 
And  made  her  think  of  elfin  lamps, 
And  feast  and  sport  in  fairy  camps, 
Whereat,  upon  her  royal  throne 
(Most  richly  carved  in  cherry-stone), 
Titan ia  ruled,  in  queenly  state, 
The  boisterous  revels  of  the  fete! 
'Twas  yonder,  with  their  "  horrid  "  noise, 
Dismissed  from  books,  she  met  the  boys, 
Who,  with  a  barbarous  scorn  of  girls, 
Glanced  slightly  at  her  sunny  curls, 
And  laughed  and  leaped  as  reckless  by 
As  though  no  pretty  face  were  nigh ! 
But — here  the  maiden  grows  demure — 
Indeed  she's  not  so  very  sure, 
That  in  a  year,  or  haply  twain, 
Who  looked  e'er  failed  to  look  again, 
And  sooth  to  say,  I  little  doubt 
(Some  azure  day,  the  truth  will  out !) 
That  certain  baits  in  certain  eyes 
Caught  many  an  unsuspecting  prize ; 
And  somewhere  underneath  these  eaves 
A  budding  flirt  put  forth  its  leaves ! 


Has  not  the  sky  a  deeper  blue, 
Have  not  the  trees  a  greener  hue, 


78  POEMS  OF  HENRY  TTMROI).  , 

And  bend  they  not  with  lordlier  grace 
And  nobler  shapes  above  the  place 
Where  on  one  cloudless  winter  morn 
My  Katie  to  this  life  was  born  ? 
Ah,  folly!  long  hath  fled  the  hour 
When  love  to  sight  gave  keener  power, 
And  lovers  looked  for  special  boons 
In  brighter  flowers  and  larger  moons. 
But  wave  the  foliage  as  it  may, 
And  let  the  sky  be  ashen  gray, 
Thus  much  at  least  a  manly  youth 
May  hold — and  yet  not  blush — as  truth  : 
If  near  that  blessed  spot  of  earth 
Which  saw  the  cherished  maiden's  birth 
No  softer  dews  than  usual  rise, 
And  life  there  keeps  its  wonted  guise,/ 5 
Yet  not  the  less  that  spot  may  seem 
As  lovely  as  a  poet's  dream  ; 
And  should  a  fervid  faith  incline 
To  make  thereof  a  sainted  shrine, 
Who  may  deny  that  round  us  throng 
A  hundred  earthly  creeds  as  wrong, 
But  meaner  far,  which  yet  unblamed 
Stalk  by  us  and  tire  not  ashamed  ? 
So,  therefore,  Katie,  as  our  stroll 
Ends  at  this  portal,  while  you  roll 
Those  lustrous  eyes  to  catch  each  ray 
That  may  recall  some  vanished  day, 
I — let  them  jeer  and  laugh  who  will  — 
Stoop  down  and  kiss  the  sacred  sill ! 


KATIE.  79 

So  strongly  sometimes  on  the  sense 
These  fancies  bold  their  influence, 
That  in  long  well-known  streets  I  stray 
Like  one  who  fears  to  lose  his  way. 
The  stranger,  I,  the  native,  she, 
Myself,  not  Kate,  had  crossed  the  sea; 
And  changing  place,  and  mixing  times, 
I  walk  in  unfamiliar  climes ! 
These  houses,  free  to  every  breeze 
That  blows  from  warm  Floridian  seas, 
Assume  a  massive  English  air, 
And  Close  around  an  English  square; 
While,  if  I  issue  from  the  town, 
An  English  hill  looks  greenly  down, 
Or  round  me  rolls  an  English  park, 
And  in  the  Broad  I  hear  the  Larke ! 
Thus  when,  where  woodland  violets  hide, 
I  rove  with  Katie  at  my  side, 
It  scarce  would  seem  amiss  to  say: 
"  Katie!  my  home  lies  far  away, 
Beyond  the  pathless  waste  of  brine, 
In  a  young  land  of  palm  and  pine  ! 
There,  by  the  tropic  heats,  the  soul 
Is  touched  as  if  with  living  coal, 
And  glows  with  such  afire  as  none 
-Can  feel  beneath  a  Northern  sun, 
Unless — my  Katie's  heart  attest ! — 
'Tis  kindled  in  an  English  breast ! 
Such  is  the  land  in  which  I  live, 
And,  Katie!  such  the  soul  I  give. 


80  POEMS  OF  HENRY  TIM110D. 

Come  !  ere  another  morning  beam, 
-  'We'll  cleave  the  sea  with  wings  of  steam  ; 

And  soon,  despite  of  storm  or  calm, 

J3eneath  my  native  groves  of  palm, 
/Kind  friends  shall  greet,  with  joy  and  pride, 

The  Southron  and  his  English  bride !" 


CAROLINA, 
i. 

The  despot  treads  thy  sacred  sands, 
Thy  pines  give  shelter  to  his  bands, 
Thy  sons  stand  by  with  idle  hands, 

Carolina ! 

He  breathes  at  ease  thy  airs  of  balm, 
He  scorns  the  lances  of  thy  palm; 
Oh  !  who  shall  break  thy  craven  calm, 

Carolina ! 

Thy  ancient  fame  is  growing  dim, 
A  spot  is  on  thy  garment's  rim ; 
Give  to  the  winds  thy  battle  hymn, 

Carolina ! 

II. 

Call  on  thy  children  of  the  hill, 
Wake  swamp  and  river,  coast  and  rill, 
Rouse  all  thy  strength  and  all  thy  skill, 
Carolina! 


CAROLINA.  81 

Cite  wealth  and  science,  trade  and  art, 
Touch  with  thy  fire  the  cautious  mart, 
And  pour  thee  through  the  people's  heart, 

Carolina! 

Till  even  the  coward  spurns  his  fears, 
And  all  thy  fields  and  fens  and  mores 
Shall  bristle  like  thy  palm  with  spears, 

Carolina ! 


in. 

Hold  up  the  glories  of  thy  dead  ; 
Say  how  thy  elder  children  bled, 
And  point  to  En  taw's  battle-bed, 

Carolina ! 

Tell  how  the  patriot's  soul  was  tried, 
And  what  his  dauntless  breast  defied  ; 
How  Rutledge  ruled  and  Laurens  died, 

Carolina ! 

Cry!  till  thy  summons,  heard  at  last, 
Shall  fall  like  Marion's  bugle- blast 
Re-echoed  from  the  haunted  Past, 

Carolina ! 


IV. 

I  hear  a  murmur  as  of  waves 

That  grope  their  way  through  sunless  caves, 

Like  bodies  struggling  in  their  graves, 

Carolina ! 
4* 


82        POEMS  OF  HENRY  TIMROD. 

And  now  it  deepens  ;  slow  and  grand 
It  swells,  as,  rolling  to  the  land, 
An  ocean  broke  upon  thy  strand, 

Carolina! 

Shout!  let  it  reach  the  startled  Huns! 
And  roar  with  all  thy  festal  guns'. 
It  is  the  answer  of  thy  sons, 

Carolina ! 


v. 

They  will  not  wait  to  hear  thee  call; 
From  Sachem's  Head  to  Su niter's  wall 
Resounds  the  voice  of  hut  and  hall, 

Carolina ! 

No  !  thou  hast  not  a  stain,  they  say, 
Or  none  save  what  the  battle-day 
Shall  wash  in  seas  of  blood  away, 

Carolina ! 

Thy  skirts  indeed  the  foe  may  part. 
Thy  robe  be  pierced  with  sword  anc.  dart, 
They  shall  not  touch  thy  noble  heart, 

Carolina  I 


VI. 

Ere  thou  shalt  own  the  tyrant's  "thrall 
Ten  times  ten  thousand  men  must  fall; 
Thyjcorpse  may  hearken  to  his  call, 
Carolina! 


A   CRY  TO  ARMS.  83 

When,  by  thy  bier,  in  mournful  throngs 
The  women  chant  thy  mortal  wrongs, 
'Twill  be  their  own  funereal  songs, 

Carolina  ! 

From  thy  dead  breast  by  ruffians  trod 
No  helpless  child  shall  look  to  God ; 
All  shall  be  safe  beneath  thy  sod, 

Carolina ! 

VII. 

Girt  with  such  wills  to  do  and  bear, 
Assured  in  right,  and  mailed  in  prayer, 
Thou  wilt  not  bow  thee  to  despair, 

Carolina ! 

Throw  thy  bold  banner  to  the  breeze! 
Front  with  thy  ranks  the  threatening  seas 
Like  thine  own  proud  armorial  trees, 

Carolina ! 

Fling  down  thy  gauntlet  to  the  Huns, 
And  roar  the  challenge  from  thy  guns; 
Then  leave  the  future  to  thy  sons, 

Carolina! 


A   CRY  TO   ARMS. 

Ho  !  woodsmen  of  the  mountain  side  ! 

Ho!  dwellers  in  the  vales  ! 
Ho !  ye  who  by  the  chating  tide 

Have  roughened  in  the  gales! 


84  POEMS  OF  HENRY  TIMROD. 

Leave  barn  and  byre,  leave  kin  and  cot, 
Lay  by  the  bloodless  spade ; 

Let  desk,  and  case,  and  counter  rot, 
And  burn  your  books  of  trade. 

The  despot  roves  your  fairest  lands ; 

And  till  he  flies  or  fears, 
Your  fields  must  grow  but  armed  bands, 

Your  sheaves  be  sheaves  of  spears  ! 
Give  up  to  mildew  and  to  rust 

The  useless  tools  of  gain; 
And  feed  your  country's  sacred  dust 

With  floods  of  crimson  rain  ! 

Come,  with  the  weapons  at  your  call — 

With  musket,  pike,  or  knife  ; 
He  wields  the  deadliest  blade  of  all 

Who  lightest  holds  his  life. 
The  arm  that  drives  its  unbought  blows 

With  all  a  patriot's  scorn, 
Might  brain  a  tyrant  with  a  rose, 

Or  stab  him  with  a  thorn. 

Does  any  falter  ?  let  him  turn 

To  some  brave  maiden's  eyes, 
And  catch  the  holy  fires  that  burn 

In  those  sublunar  skies.. 
Oh  !  con  Id  you  like  yoni*  women  feel. 

And  in  their  spirit  march, 
A  day  might  see  your  lines  of  steel 

Beneath  the  victor's  arch. 


SERENADE.  85 

What  hope,  0  God !  would  not  grow  warm 

When  thoughts  like  these  give  cheer  ? 
The  Lily  calmly  braves  the  storm, 

And  shall  the  Pulm-tree  fear  ? 
No !  rather  let  its  branches  court 

The  rack  that  sweeps  the  plain  ; 
And  from  the  Lily's  regal  port 

Learn  how  to  breast  the  strain ! 

Ho !  woodsmen  of  the  mountain  side ! 

Ho  !  dwellers  in  the  vales  ! 
Ho !  ye  who  by  the  roaring  tide 

Have  roughened  in  the  gales ! 
Come !  nocking  gayly  to  the  fight, 

From  forest,  hill,  and  lake ; 
We  battle  for  our  Country's  right, 

And  for  the  Lily's  sake  ! 


SERENADE. 

Hide,  happy  damask,  from  the  stars, 

What  sleep  enfolds  behind  your  veil, 
But  open  to  the  fairy  cars 

On  which  the  dreams  of  midnight  sail; 
And  let  the  zephyrs  rise  and  fall 

About  her  in  the  curtained  gloom, 
And  then  return  to  tell  me  all 

The  silken  secrets  of  the  room. 


86  POEMS  OF  UENRY  TIMROD. 

Ah,  dearest !  may  the  elves  that  sway 

Thy  fancies  come  from  emerald  plots, 
Where  they  have  dozed  and  dreamed  all  day 

In  hearts  of  blue  forget-me-nots. 
And  one  perhaps  shall  whisper  thus : 

Awake!  and  light  the  darkness,  Sweet! 
While  thou  art  revelling  with  us, 

He  watches  in  the  lonely  street. 


WHY   SILENT? 

Why  am  I  silent  from  year  to  year  ? 

Needs  must  I  sing  on  these  blue  March  days  ? 
What  will  you  say,  when  I  tell  you  here, 

That  already,  I  think,  for  a  little  praise, 
I  have  paid  too  dear  ? 

For,  I  know  not  why,  when  I  tell  my  thought, 

It  seems  as  though  I  fling  it  away ; 
And  the  charm  wherewith  a  fancy  is  fraught, 

When  secret,  dies  with  the  fleeting  lay 
Into  which  it  is  wrought. 

So  my  butterfly-dreams  their  golden  wings 
But  seldom  unfurl  from  their  chrysalis ; 

And  thus  I  retain  my  loveliest  things, 

While  the  world,  in  its  worldliness,  does  not  miss 
What  a  poet  sings. 


TWO  PORTRAITS.  87 

TWO   PORTRAITS. 

I. 

You  say.  as  one  who  shapes  a  life, 
That  you  will  never  be  a  wife, 

And,  laughing  lightly,  ask  my  aid 
To  paint  yonr  future  as  a  maid. 

This  is  the  portrait.;  and  I  take 
The  softest  colors  for  your  sake: 

The  springtime  of  your  soul  is  dead, 
And  forty  years  have  bent  your  head  ; 

The  lines  are  firmer  round  your  mouth, 
But  still  its  smile  is  like  the  South. 

Your  eyes,  grown  deeper,  are  not  sad, 
Yet  never  more  than  gravely  glad ; 

And  the  old  charm  still  lurks  within 
The  cloven  dimple  of  your  chin. 

Some  share,  perhaps,  of  youthful  gloss 
Your  cheek  hath  shed  ;  but  still  across 

The  delicate  ear  are  folded  down 
Those  silken  locks  of  chestnut  brown; 

Though  here  and  there  a  thread  of  gray 
Steals  through  them  like  a  lunar  ray. 


88  POEMS  OF  UENRT  T1MROD. 

One  might  suppose  your  life  had  passed 
Unvexed  by  any  troubling  blast; 

And  such — for  all  that  I  foreknow — 
May  be  the  truth !     The  deeper  woe ! 

A  loveless  heart  is  seldom  stirred ; 
And  sorrow  shuns  the  mateless  bird ; 

But  ah !  through  cares  alone  we  reach 
The  happiness  which  mocketh  speech  ; 

In  the  white  courts  beyond  the  stars 
The  noblest  brow  is  seamed  with  scars  ; 

And  they  on  earth  who've  wept  the  most 
Sit  highest  of  the  heavenly  host. 

Grant  that  your  maiden  life  hath  sped 
In  music  o'er  a  golden  bed, 

With  rocks,  and  winds,  and  storms  at  truce, 
And  not  without  a  noble  use  ; 

Yet  are  you  happy  ?    In  your  air 
I  see  a  nameless  want  appear, 

And  a  faint  shadow  on  your  cheek 
Tells  what  the  lips  refuse  to  speak. 

You  have  had  all  a  maid  could  hope 
In  the  most  cloudless  horoscope: 


TWO  PORTRAITS.  89 

The  strength  that  cometh  from  above ; 
A  Christian  mother's  holy  love ; 

And  always  at  your  soul's  demand  • 

A  brother's,  sister's  heart  and  hand. 

Small  need  your  heart  hath  had  to  roam 
Beyond  the  circle  of  your  home  ; 

And  yet  upon  your  wish  attends 
A  loving  throng  of  genial  friends. 

What,  in  a  lot  so  sweet  as  this, 
Is  wanting  to  complete  your  bliss  ? 

And  to  what  secret  shall  I  trace 

The  clouds  that  sometimes  cross  your  face, 

And  that  sad  look  which  now  and  then 
Comes,  disappears,  and  comes  again, 

And  dies  reluctantly  away 

In  those  clear  eyes  of  azure  gray  ? 

At  best,  and  after  all,  the  place 
You  fill  with  such  a  serious  grace, 

Hath  much  to  try  a  woman's  heart, 
And  you  but  play  a  painful  part. 

The  world  around,  with  little  ruth, 

Still  laughs  at  maids  who  have  not  youth, 


90  POEMS  OF  HENRY   TIMROT). 

And,  right  or  wrong,  the  old  maid  rests 
The  victim  of  its  paltry  jests, 

And  still  is  doomed  to  meet  and  bear 
Its  pitying  smile  or  furtive  sneer. 

These  are  indeed  but  petty  things, 

And  yet  they  touch  some  hearts  like  stings. 

But  I  acquit  you  of  the  shame 
Of  being  unresisting  game  ; 

For  you  are  of  such  tempered  clay 
As  turns  far  stronger  shafts  away, 

And  all  that  foes  or  fools  could  guide 
Would  only  curl  that  lip  of  pride. 

How  then,  0.  weary  one !  explain 
The  sources  of  that  hidden  pain  ? 

Alas!  you  have  divined  at  length 
How  little  you  have  used  your  strength, 

Which,  with  who  knows  what  human  good, 
Lies  buried  in  that  maidenhood, 

Where,  as  amid  a  field  of  flowers, 

You  have  but  played  with  April  showers. 

Ah  !  we  would  wish  the  world  less  fair, 
If  Spring  alone  adorned  the  year, 


TWO  PORTRAITS.  91 

And  Autumn  came  not  with  its  fruit, 
And  Autumn  hymns  were  ever  mute. 

So  I  remark  without  surprise 
That,  as  the  unvarying  season  flies, 

From  day  to  night,  and  night  to  day, 
You  sicken  of  your  endless  May. 

In  this  poor  life  we  may  not  cross 
One  virtuous  instinct  without  loss, 

And  the  soul  grows  not  to  its  height 
Till  love  calls  forth  its  utmost  might. 

Not  blind  to  all  you  might  have  been, 
And  with  some  consciousness  of  sin — 

Because  with  love  you  sometimes  played, 
And  choice,  not  fate,  hath  kept  you  maid — 

You  feel  that  you  must  pass  from  earth 
But  half-acquainted  with  its  worth, 

And  that  within  your  heart  are  deeps 
In  which  a  nobler  woman  sleeps  ; 

That  not  the  maiden,  but  the  wife 
Grasps  the  whole  lesson  of  a  life, 

While  such  as  you  but  sit  and  dream 
Along  the  surface  of  its  stream. 


92  POEM'S  OF  JIENRY  TIMROI). 

And  doubtless  sometimes,  all  unsought, 
There  comes  upon  your  hour  of  thought, 

Despite  the  struggles  of  your  will, 
A  sense  of  something  absent  still; 

And  then  you  cannot  help  but  yearn 
To  love  and  be  beloved  in  turn, 

As  they  are  loved,  and  love,  who  live 
As  love  were  all  that  life  could  give; 

And  in  a  transient  clasp  or  kiss 
Crowd  an  eternity  of  bliss ; 

They  who  of  every  mortal  joy 

Taste  always  twice,  nor  feel  them  cloy, 

Or,  if  woes  come,  in  Sorrow's  hour 
Are  strengthened  by  a  double  power. 


II. 

Here  ends  my  feeble  sketch  of  what 
Might,  but  will  never  be  your  lot; 

And  I  foresee  how  oft  these  rhymes 
Shall  make  you  smile  in  after- times. 

If  I  have  read  your  nature  right, 
It  only  waits  a  spark  of  light ; 


TWO  PORTRAIT*.  93 

And  when  that  comes,  as  come  it  must, 
It  will  not  fall  on  arid  dust, 

Nor  yet  on  that  which  breaks  to  flame 
In  the  first  blush  of  maiden  shame ; 

But  on  a  heart  which,  even  at  rest, 
Is  warmer  than  an  April  nest, 

Where,  settling  soft,  that  spark  shall  creep 
About  as  gently  as  a  sleep ; 

Still  stealing  on  with  pace  so  slow 
Yourself  will  scarcely  feel  the  glow, 

Till  after  many  and  many  a  day, 
Although  no  gleam  its  course  betray, 

It  shall  attain  the  inmost  shrine, 
And  wrap  it  in  a  fire  divine ! 

1  know  not  when  or  whence  indeed 
Shall  fall  and  burst  the  burning  seed, 

But  oh  !  once  kindled,  it  will  blaze, 
I  know,  for  ever !     By  its  rays 

You  will  perceive,  with  subtler  eyes, 
The  meaning  in  the  earth  and  skies, 

Which,  with  their  animated  chain 

Of  grass  and  flowers,  and  sun  and  rain, 


04  POEMS  OF  HENRY  TIMROD. 

Of  green  below,  and  blue  above, 
Are  but  a  type  of  married  love. 

You  will  perceive  that  in  the  breast 
The  germs  of  many  virtues  rest, 

Which,  ere  they  feel  a  lover's  breath, 
Lie  in  a  temporary  death ; 

And  till  the  heart  is  wooed  and  won 
It  is  an  earth  without  a  sun. 


III. 

But  now,  stand  forth  as  sweet  as  life ! 
And  let  me  paint  yon  as  a  wife. 

I  note  some  changes  in  your  face, 
And  in  your  mien  a  graver  grace ; 

Yet  the  calm  forehead  lightly  bears 
Its  weight  of  twice  a  score  of  years ; 

And  that  one  love  which  on  this  earth 
Can  wake  the  heart  to  all  its  worth, 

And  to  their  height  can  lift  and  bind 
The  powers  of  soul,  and  sense,  and  rnind, 

Hath  not  allowed  a  charm  to  fade— 
And  the  wife's  lovelier  than  the  maid. 


TWO   PORTRAITS.  1)5 

An  air  of  still,  though  bright  repose 
Tells  that  a  tender  hand  bestows 

All  that  a  generous  manhood  may 
To  make  your  life  one  bridal  day, 

While  the  kind  eyes  betray  no  less, 
In  their  blue  depths  of  tenderness, 

That  you  have  learned  the  truths  which  lie 
Behind  that  holy  mystery, 

Which,  with  its  blisses  and  its  woes, 
Nor  man  nor  maiden  ever  knows. 

If  now,  as  to  the  eyes  of  one 

Whose  glance  not  even  thought  can  shun, 

Your  soul  lay  open  to  my  view, 
I,  looking  all  its  nature  through, 

Could  see  no  incompleted  part, 

For  the  whole  woman  warms  your  heart. 

I  cannot  tell  how  many  dead 
You, number  in  the  cycles  fled, 

And  you  but  look  the  more  serene 
For  all  the  griefs  you  may  have  seen, 

As  you  had  gathered  from  the  dust 

The  flowers  of  Peace,  and  Hope,  and  Trust. 


96  POEMS   OF  IIENJIY  TIMR01). 

Your  smile  is  even  sweeter  now 
That  when  it  lit  your  maiden  brow, 

And  that  which  wakes  this  gentler  charm 
Coos  at  this  moment  on  your  arm. 

Your  voice  was  always  soft  in  youth, 
And  had  the  very  sound  of  truth, 

But  never  were  its  tones  so  mild 
Until  you  blessed  your  earliest  child ; 

And  when  to  soothe  some  little  wrong 
It  melts  into  a  mother's  song, 

The  same  strange  sweetness  which  in  years 
Long  vanished  filled  the  eyes  with  tears, 

And  (even  when  mirthful)  gave  always 
A  pathos  to  your  girlish  lays, 

Falls,  with  perchance  a  deeper  thrill, 
Upon  the  breathless  listener  still. 

I  cannot  guess  in  what  fair  spot 

The  chance  of  Time  hath  fixed  your  lot, 

Nor  can  I  name  what  manly  breast 
Gives  to  that  head  a  welcome  rest ; 

I  cannot,  tell  if  partial  Fate 

Hath  made  you  poor,  or  rich,  or  great: 


CHARLESTON.  97 

But  oh !  whatever  be  your  place, 
I  never  saw  a  form  or  face 

To  which  more  plainly  hath  been  lent 
The  blessing  of  a  full  content ! 


CHABLESTON. 

Calm  as  that  second  summer  which  precedes 

The  first  fall  of  the  snow, 
.  In  the  broad  sunlight  of  heroic  deeds, 
The  City  bides  the  foe. 

As  yet,  behind  their  ramparts  stern  and  proud, 

Her  bolted  thunders  sleep- 
Dark  Sumter,  like  a  battlemented  cloud, 
/      Looms  o'er  the  solemn  deep. 

No  Calpe  frowns  from  lofty  cliff  or  scar 

To  guard  the  holy  strand; 
But  Moultrie  holds  in  leash  her  dogs  of  war 

Above  the  level  sand. 

And  down  the  dunes  a  thousand  guns  lie  couched, 

Unseen,  beside  the  flood — 
Like  tigers  in  some  Orient  jungle  crouched  * 

That  wait  and  watch  fur  blood. 

Meanwhile,  through  streets  still  echoing  with  trade, 
W;ilk  grave  and  thoughtful  men, 


98  POEMS  OF  HENRY  TIMROD. 

Whose  hands  may  one  day  wield  the  patriot's  blade 
As  lightly  as  the  pen. 

And  maidens,  with  such  eyes  as  would  grow  dim 

Over  a  bleeding  hound, 
Seem  each  one  to  have  caught  the  strength  of  him 

Whose  sword  she  sadly  bound. 

Thus  girt  without  and  garrisoned  at  home, 

Day  patient  following  day, 
Old  Charleston  looks  from  roof,  and  spire,  and  dome, 

Across  her  tranquil  bay. 

Ships,  through  a  hundred  foes,  from  Saxon  lands 

And  spicy  Indian  ports, 
Bring  Saxon  steel  and  iron  to  her  hands, 

And  Summer  to  her  courts. 

But  still,  along  yon  dim  Atlantic  line, 

The  only  hostile  smoke 
Creeps  like  a  harmless  mist  above  the  brine, 

From  some  frail,  floating  oak. 

Shall  the  Spring  dawn,  and  she  still  clad  in  smiles, 

And  with  an  unscathed  brow, 
Rest  in  the  strong  arms  of  her  palm-crowned  isles, 

As  fair  and  free  as  now  ? 

We  know  not ;  in  the  temple  of  the  Fates 

God  has  inscribed  her  doom  ; 
And,  all  untroubled  in  her  faith,  she  waits 

The  triumph  or  the  tomb. 


RTPLET.  99 


RIPLEY. 

Rich  in  red  honors,  that  upon  him  lie 

As  lightly  as  the  Summer  dews 
Fall  where  he  won  his  fame  beneath  the  sky 

Of  tropic  Vera  Cruz ; 

Bold  scorner  of  the  cant  that  has  its  birth 

In  feeble  or  in  failing  powers ; 
A  lover  of  all  frank  and  genial  mirth 

That  wreathes  the  sword  with  flowers; 

He  moves  amid  the  warriors  of  the  day, 

Just  such  a  soldier  as  the  art 
That  builds  its  trophies  upon  human  clay 

Moulds  of  a  cheerful  heart. 

I  see  him  in  the  battle  that  shall  shake, 
Ere  long,  old  Sumter's  haughty  crown, 

And  from  their  dreams  of  peaceful  traffic  wake 
The  wharves  of  yonder  town; 

As  calm  as  one  would  greet  a  pleasant  guest, 

And  quaff  a  cup  to  love  and  life, 
He  hurls  his  deadliest  thunders  with  a  jest, 

And  laughs  amid  the  strife. 

Yet  not  the  gravest  soldier  of  them  all 
Surveys  a  field  with  broader  scope ; 

And  who  behind  that  sea-encircled  wall 
Fights  with  a  loftier  hope  ? 


100  POEMS  OF  HENRY  TIMROD. 

Gay  Chieftain  !  on  the  crimson  rolls  of  Fame 
Thy  deeds  are  written  with  the  sword ; 

But  there- are  gentler  thoughts  which,  with  thy  name, 
Thy  country's  page  shall  hoard. 

A  nature  of  that  rare  and  happy  cast 

Which  looks,  unsteeled,  on  murder's  face  ; 

Through  what   dark   scenes  of  bloodshed  hast  thon 

passed, 
Yet  lost  no  social  grace? 

So,  when  the  bard  depicts  thee,  thou  shalt  wield 

The  weapon  of  a  tyrant's  doom, 
Bound  which,  inscribed  with  many  a  well-fought  field, 

The  rose  of  joy  shall  bloom. 


ETHNOGENESIS. 

Written  during  the  meeting  of  the  first  Southern  Congress,  at  Montgomery. 
February^  1861. 

I. 

Hath  not  the  morning  dawned  with  added  light  ? 

And  shall  not  evening  call  another  star 

Out  of  the  infinite  regions  of  the  night, 

To  mark  this  day  in  Heaven  ?  \  At  last,  we  are 

A  nation  among  nations;  and  the  world 

Shall  soon  behold  in  many  a  distant  port 

Another  flag  unfurled  !' 
Now,  come  what  may,  whose  favor  need  we  court? 


ETHNOGENE8I8.  101 

And,  under  God,  whose  thunder  need  we  fear? 

Thunk  Him  who  placed  us  here 
Beneath  so  kind  a  sky— the  very  sun 
Takes  part  with  us;  and  on  our  errands  run 
All  breezes  of  the  ocean  ;  dew  and  rain 
Do  noiseless  battle  for  us  ;  and  the  Year, 
And  all  the  gentle  daughters  in  her  train, 
March  in  our  ranks,  and  in  our  service  wield 

Long  spears  of  golden  grain  ! 
A  yellow  blossom  as  her  fairy  shield, 
June  flings  her  azure  banner  to  the  wind, 

While  in  the  order  of  their  birth 
Her  sisters  pass,  and  many  an  ample  Held 
Grows  white  beneath  their  steps,  till  now,  behold, 

Its  endless  sheets  unfold 

THE  SNOW  OF  SOUTHERN  SUMMERS!    Let  the  earth 
Rejoice!  beneath  those  fleeces  soft  and  warm 

Our  happy  land  shall  sleep 

In  a  repose  as  deep 
As  if  we  lay  intrenched  behind 
Whole  leagues  of  Russian  ice  and  Arctic  storm  I 

II. 

And  what  if,   mad   with    wrongs    themselves    have 
wrought, 

In  their  own  treachery  caught, 

By  their  own  fears  made  hold, 

And  leagued  with  him  of  old, 
Who  long  since  in  the  limits  of  the  North 


102  POEMS  OF  IIENR7  TTMROD. 

Set  up  his  evil  throne,  and  warred  with  God — 
What  if,  both  mad  and  blinded  in  their  rage, 
Our  foes  should  fling  us  down  their  mortal  gage, 
And  with  a  hostile  step  profane  our  sod! 
We  shall  not  shrink,  my  brothers,  but  go  forth 
To  meet  them,  marshalled  by  the  Lord  of  Hosts, 
And  overshadowed  by  the  mighty  ghosts 
Of  Moultrie  and  of  Eutaw — who  shall  foil 
Auxiliars  such  as  these  ?     Nor  these  alone, 

But  every  stock  and  stone 

Shall  help  us ;  but  the  very  soil, 
And  all  the  generous  wealth  it  gives  to  toil, 
And  all  for  which  we  love  our  noble  land, 
Shall  fight  beside,  and  through  us ;  sea  and  strand, 

The  heart  of  woman,  and  her  hand, 
Tree,  fruit,  and  flower,  and  every  influence, 

Gentle,  or  grave,  or  grand; 

The  winds  in  our  defence 
Shall  seem  to  blow ;  to  us  the  hills  shall  lend 

Their  firmness  and  their  calm  ; 
And  in  our  stiffened  sinews  we  shall  blend 

The  strength  of  pine  and  palm ! 

TIL 

Nor  would  we  shun  the  battle-ground. 
Though  weak  as  we  are  strong ; 

Call  up  the  clashing  elements  around, 
And  test  the  right  and  wrong ! 

On  one  side,  creeds  that  dare  to  teach 

What  Christ  and  Paul  refrained  to  preach; 


ETHNOGENESIS.  103 

Codes  built  upon  a  broken  pledge, 

And  Charity  that  whets  a  poniard's  edge ; 

Fair  schemes  that  leave  the  neighboring  poor 

To  starve  and  shiver  at  the  schemer's  door, 

While  in  the  world's,  most  liberal  ranks  enrolled, 

He  turns  some  vast  philanthropy  to  gold; 

Religion,  taking  every  mortal  form 

But  that  a  pure  and  Christian  faith  makes  warm, 

Where  not  to  vile  fanatic  passion  urged, 

Or  not  in  vague  philosophies  submerged, 

Repulsive  with  all  Pharisaic  leaven, 

And  making  laws  to  stay  the  laws  of  Heaven! 

And  on  the  other,  scorn  of  sordid  gain, 

Unblemished  honor,  truth  without  a  stain, 

Faith,  justice,  reverence,  charitable  wealth, 

And,  for  the  poor  and  humble,  laws  which  give, 

Not  the  mean  right  to  buy  the  right  to  live, 

But  life,  and  home,  and  health  ! 
To.doubt  the  end  were  want  of  trust  in  God, 

Who,  if  he  has  decreed 
That  we  must  pass  a  redder  sea 
Than  that  which  rang  to  Miriam's  holy  glee, 

Will  surely  raise  at  need 

A  Moses  with  his  rod ! 

IV. 

But  let  our  fears — if  fears  we  have— be  still, 
And  turn  us  to  the  future!     Could  we  climb 
Some  mighty  Alp,  and  view  the  coming  time, 


104  POEMS  OF  ITENRT  TIMROD. 

The  rapturous  sight  would  fill 

Our  eyes  with  happy  tears! 
Not  only  for  the  glories  which  the  years 
Shall  bring  us ;  not  for  lands  from  sea  to  sea, 
And  wealth,  and  power,  and  peace,  though  these  shall 

be; 

But  for  the  distant  peoples  we  shall  bless, 
And  the  hushed  murmurs  of  a  world's  distress: 
For,  to  give  labor  to  the  poor, 

The  whole  sad  planet  o'er, 

And  save  from  want  and  crime  the  humblest  door, 
Is  one  among  the  many  ends  for  which 

God  makes  us  great  an  d  rich  ! 
The  hour  perchance  is  not  yet  wholly  ripe 
When  all  shall  own  it,  but  the  type 
Whereby  we  shall  be  known  in  every  land 
Is  that  vast  gulf  which  lips  our  Southern  strand, 
And  through  the  cold,  un tempered  ocean  pours 
Its  genial  streams,  that  far  off  Arctic  shores 
May  sometimes  catch  upon  the  softened  breeze 
Strange  tropic  warmth  and  hints  of  summer  seas. 


CHRISTMAS. 

How  grace  this  hallowed  day  ? 
Shall  happy  bells,  from  yonder  ancient  spire, 
Send  their  glad  greetings  to  each  Christmas  fire 

Round  which  the  children  play  ? 


CHRISTMAS.  105 

Alas  !  for  many,  a  moon, 

That  tongueless  tower  hath  cleaved  the  Sabbath  air, 
Mute  as  an  obelisk  of  ice,  aglare 

Beneath  an  Arctic  noon. 

Shame  to  the  foes  that  drown 
Our  psalms  of  worship  with  their  impious  drum, 
The  sweetest  chimes  in  all  the  land  lie  dumb 

In  some  far  rustic  town. 

There,  let  us  think,  they  keep, 
Of  the  dead  Yules  which  here  beside  the  sea 
They've  ushered  in  with  old-world,  English  glee, 

Some  echoes  in  their  sleep. 

How  shall  we  grace  the  day  ? 

With  feast,  and  song,  and  dance,  and  antique  sports, 
And  shout  of  happy  children  in  the  courts, 

And  tales  of  ghost  and  fay  ? 

Is  there  indeed  a  door, 

Where  the  old  pastimes,  with  their  lawful  noise, 
And  all  the  merry  round  of  Christmas  joys, 

Could  enter  as  of  yore  ? 

Would  not  some  pallid  face 
Look  in  upon  the  banquet,  calling  up 
Dread  shapes  of  battles  in  the  wassail  cup, 

And  trouble  all  the  place  ? 

How  could  we  bear  the  mirth, 
While  some  loved  reveller  of  a  vear  ago 

5* 


106  POEMS  OF  HENRY  TIMROD. 

Keeps  his  mute  Christmas  now  beneath  the  snow, 
In  cold  Virginian  earth  ? 

How  shall  we  grace  the  day  ? 
Ah  !  let  the  thought  that  on  this  holy  morn 
The  Prince  of  Peace — the  Prince  of  Peace  was  born, 

Employ  us,  while  we  pray ! 

Pray  for  the  peace  which  long 
Hath  left  this  tortured  land,  and  haply  now 
Holds  its  white  court  on  some  far  mountain's  brow, 

There  hardly  safe  from  wrong ! 

Let  every  sacred  fane 
Call  its  sad  votaries  to  the  shrine  of  God, 
And,  with  the  cloister  and  the  tented  sod, 

Join  in  one  solemn  strain ! 

With  pomp  of  Koman  form, 

With  the  grave  ritual  brought  from  England's  shore, 
And  with  the  simple  faith  which  asks  no  more 

Than  that  the  heart  be  warm  ! 

He,  who,  till  time  shall  cease, 
Will  watch  that  earth,  where  once,  not  all  in  vain, 
He  died  to  give  us  peace,  may  not  disdain 

A  prayer  whose  theme  is — peace. 

Perhaps  ere  yet  the  Spring 
Hath  died  into  the  Summer,  over  all 
The  land,  the  peace  of  His  vast  love  shall  fall, 

Like  some  protecting  wing. 


LA  BELLE  JUIVE.  10? 

Oh,  ponder  what  it  means ! 
Oh,  turn  the  rapturous  thought  in  every  way ! 
Oh,  give  the  vision  and  the  fancy  play, 

And  shape  the  coming  scenes ! 

Peace  in  the  quiet  dales, 
Made  rankly  fertile  by  the  blood  of  men, 
Peace  in  the  woodland,  and  the  lonely  glen, 

Peace  in  the  peopled  vales  ! 

Peace  in  the  crowded  town, 
Peace  in  a  thousand  fields  of  waving  grain, 
Peace  in  the  highway  and  the  flowery  lane, 

Peace  on  the  wind-swept  down  ! 

Peace  on  the  farthest  seas, 
Peace  in  our  sheltered  bays  and  ample  streams, 
Peace  wheresoe'er  our  starry  garland  gleams, 

And  peace  in  every  breeze ! 

Peace  on  the  whirring  marts, 
Peace  where  the  scholar  thinks,  the  hunter  roams, 
Peace,  God  of  Peace !  peace,  peace,  in  all  our  homes, 

And  peace  in  all  our  hearts ! 


LA  BELLE  JUIVE. 

Is  it  because  your  sable  hair 
Is  folded  over  brows  that  wear 
At  times  a  too  imperial  air ; 


108  POEMS  OF  HENRT   TIMROD. 

Or  is  it  that  the  thoughts  which  rise 
In  those  dark  orbs  do  seek  disguise 
Beneath  the  lids  of  Eastern  eye's  ; 

That  choose  whatever  pose  or  place 
May  chance  to  please,  in  YOU  I  trace 
The  noblest  woman  of  your  race  ? 

The  crowd  is  sauntering  at  its  ease, 
And  humming  like  a  hive  of  bees — 
You  take  your  seat  and  touch  the  keys : 

1  do  not  hear  the  giddy  throng ; 

The  sea  avenges  Israel's  wrong, 

And  on  the  wind  floats  Miriam's  song! 

You  join  me  with  a  stately  grace ; 

Music  to  Poesy  gives  place ; 

Some  grand  emotion  lights  your  face : 

At  once  I  stand  by  Mizpeh's  walls ; 
With  smiles  the  martyred  daughter  falls, 
And  desolate  are  Mizpeh's  halls ! 

Intrusive  babblers  come  between  ; 
With  calm,  pale  brow  and  lofty  mien, 
You  thread  the  circle  like  a  queen  ! 

Then  sweeps  the  royal  Esther  by ; 
The  deep  devotion  in  her  eye 
Is  looking  « If  I  die,  I  die!" 


AN  EXOTIC.  109 

You  stroll  the  garden's  flowery  walks ; 
The  plants  to  me  are  grainless  stalks, 
And  Ruth  to  old  Naomi  talks. 

Adopted  child  of  Jndah's  creed, 
Like  Jndah's  daughters,  true  at  need, 
I  see  you  mid  the  alien  seed. 

I  watch  afar  the  gleaner  sweet ; 
I  wake  like  Boaz  in  the  wheat, 
And  find  you  lying  at  my  feet! 

My  feet!  Oh  !  if  the  spell  that  lures 

My  heart  through  all  these  dreams  endures, 

IIow  soon  shall  I  be  stretched  at  yours ! 


AN  EXOTIC. 

Not  in  a  climate  near  the  sun 

Did  the  cloud  with  its  trailing  fringes  float, 
Whence,  white  as  the  down  of  an  angel's  plume, 

Fell  the  snows  of  her  brow  and  throat. 

And  the  ground  h  id  bet?n  rich  for  a  thousand  years 
With  the  blood  of  heroes,  and  sages,  and  kings, 

Where  the  rose  that  blooms  in  her  exquisite  cheek 
Unfolded  the  flush  of  its  wings. 

On  a  land  where  the  faces  are  fair,  though  pale 
As  a  moonlit  mist  when  the  winds  are  still, 


110  POEMS  OF  HENRY  TIM  ROD. 

She  breaks  like  a  morning  in  Paradise 
Through  the  palms  of  an  orient  hill. 

Her  beauty,  perhaps,  were  all  too  bright. 

But  about  her  there  broods  some  delicate  spell, 

Whence  the  wondrous  charm  of  the  girl  grows  soft 
As  the  light  in  an  English  dell. 

There  is  not  a  story  of  faith  and  truth 

On  the  starry  scroll  of  her  country's  fame, 

But  has  helped  to  shape  her  stately  mien, 
And  to  touch  her  soul  with  flame. 

I  sometimes  forget,  as  she  sweeps  me  a  bow, 
That  I  gaze  on  a  simple  English  maid, 

And  I  bend  my  head,  as  if  to  a  queen 
Who  is  courting  my  lance  and  blade. 

Once,  as  we  read,  in  a  curtained  niche, 
A  poet  who  sang  of  her  sea-throned  isle, 

There  was  something  of  Albion's  mighty  Bess 
In  the  flash  of  her  haughty  smile. 

She  seemed  to  gather  from  every  age 
All  the  greatness  of  England  about  her  there, 

And  my  fancy  wove  a  royal  crown 
Of  the  dusky  gold  of  her  hair. 

But  it  was  no  queen  to  whom  that  day, 
In  the  dim  green  shade  of  a  trellised  vine, 

I  whispered  a  hope  that  had  somewhat  to  do 
With  a  small  white  hand  in  mine. 


THE  ROSEBUDS. 

The  Tudor  had  vanished,  and,  as  I  spoke, 
'Twas  herself  looked  out  of  her  frank  brown  eye, 

And  an  answer  was  burning  upon  her  face, 
Ere  I  caught  the  low  reply. 

What  was  it !     Nothing  the  world  need  know — 
The  stars  saw  our  parting!     Enough,  that  then 

I  walked  from  the  porch  with  the  tread  of  a  king, 
And  she  was  a  queen  again ! 


THE  ROSEBUDS. 

Yes,  in  that  dainty  ivory  shrine, 
With  those  three  pallid  buds,  I  twine 
And  fold  away  a  dream  divine! 

One  night  they  lay  upon  a  breast 
Where  Love  hath  made  his  fragrant  nest, 
And  throned  me  as  a  life-long  guest. 

Near  that  chaste  heart  they  seemed  to  me 
Types  of  far  fairer  flowers  to  be — 
The  rosebuds  of  a  human  tree ! 

Buds  that  shall  bloom  beside  my  hearth, 
And  there  be  held  of  richer  worth 
Than  all  the  kingliest  gems  of  earth. 


L12  POEMS  OF  HENRY  TIMR07). 

Ah  me !  the  pathos  of  the  thought ! 
I  had  not  deemed  she  wanted  aught; 
Yet  what  a  tenderer  charm  it  wrought ! 

I  know  not  if  she  marked  the  flame 
That  lit  my  cheek,  but  not  from  shame, 
When  one  sweet  image  dimly  came. 

There  was  a  murmur  soft  and  low; 
White  folds  of  cambric,  parted  slow ; 
And  little  fingers  played  with  snow ! 

How  far  my  fancy  dared  to  stray, 
A  lover's  reverence  needs  not  say — 
Enough — the  vision  passed  away ! 

Passed  in  a  mist  of  happy  tears, 
*  While  something  in  my  tranced  ears 
Hummed  like  the  future  in  a  seer's! 


A  MOTHER'S  WAIL. 

My  babe  I  my  tiny  babe  !  my  only  babe ! 
My  single  rose-bud  in  a  crown  of  thorns! 
My  lamp  that  in  that  narrow  hut  of  life, 
Whence  I  looked  forth  upon  a  night  of  storm! 
Burned  with  the  lustre  of  the  moon  and  stars! 


A   MOTHER'S   WAIL.  113 

My  babe!  my  tiny  babe!  my  only  babe! 
Behold  the  bud  is  gone !  the  thorns  remain  ! 
My  lamp  hath  fallen  from  its  niche — ah,  me ! 
Earth  drinks  the  fragrant  flame,  and  I  am  left 
Forever  and  forever  in  the  dark ! 

My  babe !  my  babe !  my  own  and  only  babe  !• 
Where  art  thou  now  ?     If  somewhere  in  the  sky 
An  angel  hold  thee  in  his  radiant  arms, 
I  challenge  him  to  clasp  thy  tender  form 
"With  half  the  fervor  of  a  mother's  love  ! 

Forgive  me,  Lord!  forgive  my  reckless  grief! 
Forgive  me  that  this  rebel,  selfish  heart 
Would  almost  make  me  jealous  for  my  child, 
Though  thy  own  lap  enthroned  him.     Lord,  thou  hast 
So  many  such!     I  have — ah!  had  but  one! 

0  yet.  once  more,  my  babe,  to  hear  thy  cry ! 

0  yet  once  more,  my  babe,  to  see  thy  smile ! 

0  yet  once  more  to  feel  against  my  breast 

Those  cool,  soft  hands,  that  warm,  wet,  eager  mouth, 

With  the  sweet  sharpness  of  its  budding  pearls ! 

But  it  must  never,  never  more  be  mine 
To  mark  the  growing  meaning  in  thine  eyes, 
To  watch  thy  soul  unfolding  leaf  by  leaf, 
Or  catch,  with  ever  fresh  surprise  and  joy, 
Thy  dawning  recognitions  of  the 'world. 

Three  different  shadows  of  thyself,  my  babe, 

Ch ungo  with  each  other  while  I  wee]).     The  first, 


114  POEMS  OF  HENRY  TIMROD. 

The  sweetest,  yet  the  not  least  fraught  with  pain, 
Clings  like  my  living  boy  around  my  neck, 
Or  purrs  and  murmurs  softly  at  my  feet ! 

Another  is  a  little  mound  of  earth ; 

That  comes  the  oftenest,  darling !     In  my  dreams, 

I  see  it  heaten  by  the  midnight  rain, 

Or  chilled  beneath  the  moon.     Ah  !  what  a  couch 

For  that  which  I  have  shielded  from  a  breath 

That  would  not  stir  the  violets  on  thy  grave! 

The  third,  my  precious  babe !  the  third,  0  Lord ! 
Is  a  fair  cherub  face  beyond  the  stars, 
Wearing  the  roses  of  a  mystic  bliss, 
Yet  sometimes  not  unsaddened  by  a  glance 
Turned  earthward  on  a  mother  in  her  woe ! 

This  is  the  vision,  Lord,  that  I  would  keep 
Before  me  always.     But,  alas !  as  yet, 
It  is  the  dimmest  and  the  rarest,  too ! 
0  touch  my  sight,  or  break  the  cloudy  bars 
That  hide  it,  lest  I  madden  where  I  kneel ! 


OUE  WILLIE. 

'Twas  merry  Christmas  when  he  came, 
Our  little  boy  beneath  the  sod; 
And  brighter  burned  the  Christmas  flame, 
And  merrier  sped  the  Christmas  game, 


OUR   WILLIE.  115 

Because  within  the  house  there  lay 
A  shape  as  tiny  as  a  fay — 

The  Christmas  gift  of  God ! 
In  wreaths  and  garlands  on  the  walls 
The  holly  hung  its  ruby  balls, 

The  mistletoe  its  pearls ; 
And  a  Christmas  tree's  fantastic  fruits 
Woke  laughter  like  a  choir  of  flutes 

From  happy  boys  and  girls. 
For  the  mirth,  which  else  had  swelled  as  shrill 
As  a  school  let  loose  to  its  errant  will, 

Was  softened  by  the  thought, 
That  in  a  dim  hushed  room  above 
A  mother's  pains  in  a  mother's  love 

Were  only  just  forgot. 
The  jest,  the  tale,  the  toast,  the  glee, 
All  took  a  sober  tone ; 
We  spoke  of  the  babe  upstairs,  as  we 
Held  festival  for  him  alone. 
When  the  bells  rang  in  the  Christmas  morn, 
It  scarcely  seemed  a  sin  to  say 
That  they  rang  because  that  babe  was  born, 
Not  less  than  for  the  sacred  day. 
Ah  !  Christ  forgive  us  for  the  crime 
Which  drowned  the  memories  of  the  time 

In  a  merely  mortal  bliss ! 
We  owned  the  error  when  the  mirth 
Of  another  Christmas  lit  the  hearth 

Of  every  home  but  this. 
When,  in  that  lonely  burial-ground, 


116  POEMS   OF  HENRY  TIMROD. 

With  every  Christmas  sight  and  sound 
Removed  or  shunned,  we  kept 
A  mournful  Christmas  by  the  mound 
Where  little  Willie  slept ! 

Ah,  hapless  mother !  darling  wife ! 
I  might  say  nothing  more, 
And  the  dull  cold  world  would  hold 
The  story  of  that  precious  life 

As  amply  told ! 

Shall  we,  shall  you  and  I,  before 
That  world's  unsympathetic  eyes 
Lay  other  relics  from  our  store 

Of  tender  memories? 
What  could  it  know  of  the  joy  and  love 
That  throbbed  and  smiled  and  wept  above 

An  unresponsive  thing? 
And  who  could  share  the  ecstatic  thrill 
With  which  we  watched  the  upturned  bill 

Of  our  bird  at  its  living  spring? 

Shall  we  tell  how  in  the  time  gone  by, 

Beneath  all  changes  of  the  sky, 

And  in  an  ordinary  home 
Amid  the  city's  din, 

Life  was  to  us  a  crystal  dome, 

Our  babe  the  flame  therein  ? 

Ah  !  this  were  jargon  on  the  mart  ; 

And  though  some  gentle  friend, 

And  many  and  many  a  suffering  heart, 

Would  weep  and  comprehend, 


OUR   WILLIE.  ]17 

Yet  even  these  might  fail  to  see 

What  we  saw  daily  in  the  child — 

Not  the  mere  creature  undefiled, 

But  the  winged  cherub  soon  to  be. 

That  wandering  hand  which  seemed  to  reach 

At  angel  finger-tips, 
And  that  murmur  like  a  mystic  speech 

Upon  the  rosy  lips, 
That  something  in  the  serious  face 
Holier  than  even  its  infant  grace, 
And  that  rapt  gaze  on  empty  space, 
Which  made  us,  half  believing,  say, 
"  Ah,  little  wide-eyed  seer !  who  knows 
But  that  for  you  this  chamber  glows 
With  stately  shapes  and  solemn  shows  ?" 
Which  touched  us,  too,  with  vague  alarms. 
Lest  in  the  circle  of  our  arms 
We  held  a  being  less  akin 
To  his  parents  in  a  world  of  sin 
Than  to  beings  not  of  clay : 
How  could  we  speak  in  human  phrase, 
Of  such  scarce  earthly  traits  and  ways, 

What  would  not  seem 

A  doting  dream, 
In  the  creed  of  these  sordid  days  ? 

No !  let  us  keep 

Deep,  deep, 

In  sorrowing  heart  and  aching  brain, 
This  story  hidden  with  the  pain. 


118  POEMS  OF  HENRY  TIMROD. 

Which,  since  that  blue  October  night 

When  Willie  vanished  from  our  sight, 

Must  haunt  us  even  in  our  sleep. 

In  the  gloom  of  the  chamber  where  he  died, 

And  by  that  grave  which,  through  our  care, 

From  Yule  to  Yule  of  every  year, 

Is  made  like  Spring  to  bloom; 

And  where,  at  times,  we  catch  the  sigh 

As  of  an  angel  floating  nigh, 

Who  longs  but  has  not  power  to  tell 

That  in  that  violet-shrouded  cell 

Lies  nothing  better  than  the  shell 

Which  he  had  cast  aside — 

By  that  sweet  grave,  in  that  dark  room, 

We  may  weave  at  will  for  each  other's  ear, 

Of  that  life,  and  that  love,  and  that  early  doom, 

The  tale  which  is  shadowed  here: 

To  us  alone  it  will  always  be 

As  fresh  as  our  own  misery ; 

But  enough,  alas  !  for  the  world  is  said, 

In  the  brief  "  Here  lieth  "  of  the  dead! 


CABMEN  TRIUMPHALE. 

Go  forth  and  bid  the  land  rejoice, 
Yet  not  too  gladly,  0  my  song ! 
Breathe  softly,  as  if  mirth  would  wrong 

The  solemn  rapture  of  thy  voice. 


CARMEN  TRIUMPHALE. 

Be  nothing  lightly  done  or  said 

This  happy  day !     Our  joy  should  flow 
Accordant  with  the  lofty  woe 

That  wails  above  the  noble  dead. 

Let  him  whose  brow  and  bivast  were  calm 
While  yet  the  battle  la)  with  God, 
Look  down  upon  the  crimson  sod 

And  gravely  wear  his  mournful  palm; 

And  him,  whose  heart  still  weak  from  fear 
Beats  all  too  gayly  for  the  time, 
Know  that  intemperate  glee  is  crime 

While  one  dead  hero  claims  a  tear. 

Yet  go  thou  forth,  my  song!  and  thrill, 
With  sober  joy,  the  troubled  days ; 
A  nation's  hymn  of  grateful  praise 

May  not  be  hushed  for  private  ill. 

Our  foes  are  fallen  !     Flash,  ye  wires  ! 

The  mighty  tidings  far  and  nigh  ! 

Ye  cities!  write  them  on  the  sky 
In  purple  and  in  emerald  fires ! 

They  came  with  many  a  haughty  boast; 

Their  threats  were  heard  on  every  breeze  ; 

They  darkened  half  the  neighboring  seas ; 
And  swooped  like  vultures  on  the  coast. 

False  recreants  in  all  knightly  strife, 
Their  way  was  wet  with  woman's  tears  ; 


120  POEMS  OF  UENRY  TIMROD. 

Behind  them  flamed  the  toil  of  years, 
And  bloodshed  stained  the  sheaves  of  liie. 

They  fought  as  tyrants  fight,  or  slaves ; 

God  gave  the  dastards  to  our  hands ; 

Their  bones  are  bleaching  on  the  sands, 
Or  mouldering  slow  in  shallow  graves. 

What  though  we  hear  about  our  path 

The  heavens  with  howls  of  vengeance  rent  ? 
The  venom  of  their  hate  is  spent ; 

We  need  not  heed  their  fangless  wrath. 

Meantime  the  stream  they  strove  to  chain 
Now  drinks  a  thousand  springs,  and  sweeps 
With  broadening  breast,  and  mightier  deeps, 

And  rushes  onward  to  the  main  ; 

While  down  the  swelling  current  glides 
Our  Ship  of  State  before  the  blast, 
With  streamers  poured  from  every  mast, 

Her  thunders  roaring  from  her  sides. 

Lord !  bid  the  frenzied  tempest  cease, 
Hang  out  thy  rainbow  on  the  sea ! 
Laugh  round  her,  waves  !  in  silver  glee, 

And  speed  her  to  the  port  of  peace ! 


ADDRESS.  121 

ADDRESS    DELIVERED    AT     THE    OPENING 
OF  THE  NEW  THEATRE  AT  RICHMOND. 

A    PRIZE    POEM. 

A  fairy  ring 

Drawn  in  the  crimson  of  a  battle-plain — 
From  whose  weird  circle  every  loathsome  thing 

And  sight  and  sound  of  pain 
Are  banished,  while  about  it  in  the  air, 
And  from  the  ground,  and  from  the  low-hung  skiej, 

Throng,  in  a  vision  fail- 
As  ever  lit  a  prophet's  dying  eyes, 

Gleams  of  that  unseen  world 
That  lies  about  us,  rainbow-tinted  shapes 

With  starry  wings  unfurled, 
Poised  for  a  moment  on  such  airy  capes 

As  pierce  the  golden  foam 

Of  sunset's  silent  main — 
Would  image  what  in  this  enchanted  dome, 

Amid  the  night  of  war  and  death 
In  which  the  armed  city  draws  its  breath, 

We  have  built  up ! 
For  though  no  wizard  wand  or  magic  cup 

The  spell  hath  wrought, 
Within  this  charmed  fune,  we  ope  the  gates 

Of  that  divines t  Fairy-land, 

Where  under  loftier  fates 
Than  rule  the  vulgar  earth  on  which  we  stand, 

Move  the  bright  creatures  of  the  realm  of  thought. 

0 


122  POEMS  OF  HENRY  TIMROD. 

Shut  for  one  happy  evening  from  the  flood 
That  roars  around  us,  here  you  may  behold  — 

As  if  a  desert  way 

Could  blossom  and  unfold 

A  garden  fresh  with  May — 
Substantialized  in  breathing  flesh  and  blood, 

Souls  that  upon  the  poet's  page 

Have  lived  from  age  to  age, 
And  yet  have  never  donned  this  mortal  clay. 

A  golden  strand 
Shall  sometimes  spread  before  you  like  the  isle 

Where  fair  Miranda's  smile 
Met  the  sweet  stranger  whom  the  father's  art 

Had  led  unto  her  heart, 
Which,  like  a  bud  that  waited  for  the  light. 

Burst  into  bloom  at  sight ! 
Love  shall  grow  softer  in  each  maiden's  eyes 
As  Juliet  leans  her  cheek  upon  her  hand, 

And  prattles  to  the  night. 

Anon,  a  reverend  form, 

With  tattered  robe  and  forehead  bare, 
That  challenge  all  the  torments  of  the  air, 

Goes  by ! 

And  the  pent  feelings  choke  in  one  long  sigh, 
While,  as  the  mimic  thunder  rolls,  you  hear 

The  noble  wreck  of  Lear 
Reproach  like  things  of  life  the  ancient  skies, 

And  commune  with  the  storm  ! 
Lo !  next  a  dim  and  silent  chamber  where, 
Wrapt  in  glad  dreams  in  which,  perchance,  the  Moor 

Tells  his  strange  story  o'er, 


ADDRESS.  123 

The  gentle  Desdemona  chastely  lies, 
Unconscious  of  the  loving  murderer  nigh. 

Then  through  a  hush  like  death 

Stalks  Denmark's  mailed  ghost ! 
And  Hamlet  enters  with  that  thoughtful  breath 
Which  is  the  trumpet  to  a  countless  host 
Of  reasons,  but  which  wakes  no  deed  from  sleep; 

For  while  it  calls  to  strife, 
He  pauses  on  the  very  brink  of  fact 
To  toy  as  with  the  shadow  of  an  act, 
And  utter  those  wise  saws  that  cut  so  deep 

Into  the  core  of  life  ! 

Nor  shall  be  wanting  many  a  scene 

Where  forms  of  more  familiar  mien, 
Moving  through  lowlier  pathways,  shall  present 

The  world  of  every  day, 
Such  as  it  whirls  along  the  busy  quay, 
Or  sits  beneath  a  rustic  orchard  wall, 
Or  floats  about  a  fashion-freighted  hall, 
Or  toils  in  attics  dark  the  night  away. 
Love,  hate,  grief,  joy,  gain,  glory,  shame,  shall  meet, 
As  in  the  round  wherein  our  lives  are  pent; 

Chance  for  a  while  shall  seem  to  reign, 
While  Goodness  roves  like  Guilt  about  the  street, 

And  Guilt  looks  innocent. 
But  all  at  last  shall  vindicate  the  right, 
Crime  shall  be  meted  with  its  proper  pain, 
Motes  shall  be  taken  from  the  doubter's  sight, 
And  Fortune's  general  justice  rendered  plain. 


1^4  POEMS  OF  HENRY  TIMROD. 

Of  honest  laughter  there  shall  be  no  dearth, 

Wit  shall  shake  hands  with  humor  grave  and  sweet, 

Our  wisdom  shall  not  be  too  wise  for  mirth, 

Nor  kindred  follies  want  a  fool  to  greet. 

As  sometimes  from  the  meanest  spot  of  earth 

A  sudden  beauty  unexpected  starts, 

So  you  shall  find  some  germs  of  hidden  worth 

Within  the  vilest  hearts; 
And   now   and   then,   when   in    those   moods   that 

turn 

To  the  cold  Muse  that  whips  a  fault  with  sneers, 
You  shall,  perchance,  be  strangely  touched  to  learn 

You've  struck  a  spring  of  tears! 

But  while  we  lead  you  thus  from  change  to  change, 
Shall  we  not  find  within  our  ample  range 
Some  type  to  elevate  a  people's  heart — 
Some  hero  who  shall  teach  a  hero's  part 

In  this  distracted  time  ? 
Eise  from  thy  sleep  of  ages,  noble  Tell ! 
And,  with  the  Alpine  thunders  of  thy  voice, 
As  if  across  the  billows  unen thralled 
Thy  Alps  unto  the  Alleghanies  called, 

Bid  Liberty  rejoice! 

Proclaim  upon  this  trans- Atlantic  strand 
The  deeds  which,  more  than  their  own  awful  mien 
Make  every  crag  of  Switzerland  sublime ! 
And  say  to  those  whose  feeble  souls  would  lean. 
Not  on  themselves,  but  on  some  outstretched  hand, 
That  once  a  single  mind  sufficed  to  quell 


THE  COTTON  BOLL.  1 

The  malice  of  a  tyrant;  let  them  know 
That  each  may  crowd  in  every  well-aimed  blow, 
Not  the  poor  strength  alone  of  arm  and  brand, 
But  the  whole  spirit  of  a  mighty  land! 

Bid  Liberty  rejoice !     Aye,  though  its  day 
Be  far  or  near,  these  clouds  shall  yet  be  red 
With  the  large  promise  of  the  coming  ray. 
Meanwhile,  with  that  calm  courage  which  can  smile 
Amid  the  terrors  of  the  wildest  fray, 
Let  us  among  the  charms  of  Art  awhile 

Fleet  the  deep  gloom  away ; 
Nor  yet  forget  that  on  each  hand  and  head 
Rest  the  dear  rights  for  which  we  fight  and  pray. 


THE  COTTON  BOLL. 
While  I  recline 
At  ease  beneath 
This  immemorial  pine, 
Small  sphere! 

(By  dusky  fingers  brought  this  morning  here 
And  shown  with  boastful  smiles), 
I  turn  thy  cloven  sheath, 
Through  which  the  soft  white  fibres  peer, 
That,  with  their  gossamer  bands, 
Unite,  like  love,  the  sea-divided  lands, 
And  slowly,  thread  by  thread, 
Draw  forth  the  folded  strands, 


126  POEMS  OF  HENRT  TIMEOD. 

Than  which  the  trembling  line, 

By  whose  frail  help  yon  startled  spider  fled 

Down  the  tall  spear-grass  from  his  swinging  bed. 

Is  scarce  more  fine ; 

And  as  the  tangled  skein 

Unravels  in  my  hands, 

Betwixt  me  and  the  noonday  light, 

A  veil  seems  lifted,  and  for  miles  and  miles 

The  landscape  broadens  on  my  sight, 

As,  in  the  little  boll,  there  lurked  a  spell 

Like  that  which,  in  the  ocean  shell, 

With  mystic  sound, 

Breaks  down  the  narrow  walls  that  hem  us  round, 

And  turns  some  city  lane 

Into  the  restless  main, 

With  all  his  capes  and  isles! 

Yonder  bird, 

Which  floats,  as  if  at  rest, 

In  those  blue  tracts  above  the  thunder,  where 

No  vapors  cloud  the  stainless  air, 

And  never  sound  is  heard, 

Unless  at  such  rare  time 

When,  from  the  City  of  the  Blest, 

Rings  down  some  golden  chime, 

Sees  not  from  his  high  place 

So  vast  a  cirque  of  summer  space 

As  widens  round  me  in  one  mighty  field, 

Which,  rimmed  by  seas  and  sands, 

Doth  hail  its  earliest  daylight  in  the  beams 


THE  COTTON  BOLL.  127 

Of  gray  Atlantic  dawns  ; 

And,  broad  as  realms  made  up  of  many  lands, 

Is  lost  afar 

Behind  the  crimson  hills  and  purple  lawns 

Of  sunset,  among  plains  which  roll  their  streams 

Against  the  Evening  Star  ! 

And  lo ! 

To  the  remotest  point  of  sight, 

Although  I  gaze  upon  no  waste  of  snow. 

The  endless  field  is  white  ; 

And  the  whole  landscape  glows, 

For  many  a  shining  league  away, 

With  such  accumulated  light 

As  Polar  lands  would  flash  beneath  a  tropic  day! 

Nor  lack  there  (for  the  vision  grows, 

And  the  small  charm  within  my  hands  — 

More  potent  even  than  the  fabled  one, 

Which  oped  whatever  golden  mystery 

Lay  hid  in  fairy  wood  or  magic  vale, 

The  curious  ointment  of  the  Arabian  tale— 

Beyond  all  mortal  sense 

Doth  stretch  my  sight's  horizon,  and  I  see, 

Beneath  its  simple  influence, 

As  if  with  Uriel's  crown, 

I  stood  in  some  great  temple  of  the  Sun, 

And  looked,  as  Uriel,  down !) 

Nor  lack  there  pastures  rich  and  fields  all  green 

With  all  the  common  gifts  of  God, 

For  temperate  airs  and  torrid  sheen 

Weave  Edens  of  the  sod  ; 


128  POEMS  OF  HENRY  TIMROD. 

Through  lands  which  look  one  sea  of  billowy  gold 
Broad  rivers  wind  their  devious  ways ; 
A  hundred  isles  in  their  embraces  fold 
A  hundred  luminous  bays  ; 
And  through  yon  purple  haze 

Vast   mountains    lift    their    plumed   peaks    cloud- 
crowned  ; 

And,  save  where  up  their  sides  the  ploughman  creeps, 
An  unhewn  forest  girds  them  grandly  round, 
In  whose  dark  shades  a  future  navy  sleeps ! 
Ye  Stars,  which,  though  unseen,  yet  with  me  gaze 
Upon  this  loveliest  fragment  of  the  earth! 
Thou  Sun,  that  kindlest  all  thy  gentlest  rays 
Above  it,  as  to  light  a  favorite  hearth ! 
Ye  Clouds,  that  in  your  temples  in  the  West 
See  nothing  brighter  than  its  humblest  flowers! 
And  you,  ye  Winds,  that  on  the  ocean's  breast 
Are  kissed  to  coolness  ere  ye  reach  its  bowers ! 
Bear  witness  with  me  in  my  song  of  praise, 
And  tell  the  world  that,  since  the  world  began, 
No  fairer  land  hath  fired  a  poet's  lays. 
Or  given  a  home  to  man  ! 

But  these  are  charms  already  widely  blown ! 

His  be  the  meed  whose  pencil's  trace 

Hath  touched  our  very  swamps  with  grace, 

And  round  whose  tuneful  way 

All  Southern  laurels  bloom  ; 

The  Poet  of  "The  Woodlands,"  unto  whom 

Alike  are  known 


THE  COTTON  BOLL.  129 

The  flute's  low  breathing  and  the  trumpet's  tone, 
And  the  soft  west  wind's  sighs ; 
But  who  shall  utter  all  the  debt, 
0  Land  wherein  all  powers  are  met 
That  bind  a  people's  heart, 
The  world  doth  owe  thee  at  this  day, 
And  which  it  never  can  repay, 
Yet  scarcely  deigns  to  own  ! 
Where  sleeps  the  poet  who  shall  fitly  sing 
The  source  wherefrom  doth  spring 
That  mighty  commerce  which,  confined 
To  the  mean  channels  of  no  selfish  mart, 
Goes  out  to  every  shore 

Of  this  broad  earth,  and  throngs  the  sea  with  ships 
That  bear  no  thunders;  hushes  hungry  lips 
In  alien  lands ; 

Joins  with  a  delicate  web  remotest  strands; 
And  gladdening  rich  and  poor, 
Doth  gild  Parisian  domes, 
Or  feed  the  cottage-smoke  of  English  homes, 
And  only  bounds  its  blessings  by  mankind ! 
In  offices  like  these,  thy  mission  lies, 
My  Country  !  and  it  shall  not  end 
As  long  as  rain  shall  fall  and  Heaven  bend 
In  blue  above  thee  ;  though  thy  foes  be  hard 
And  cruel  as  their  weapons,  it  shall  guard 
Thy  hearth-stones  as  a  bulwark ;  make  thee  great 
In  white  and  bloodless  state ; 
And  haply,  as  the  years  increase — 
6 


130  POEMS  OF  HENRY  TIMROD. 

Still  working  through  its  humbler  reach 

With  that  large  wisdom  which  the  ages  teach — 

Kevive  the  half-dead  dream  of  universal  peace ! 

As  men  who  labor  in  that  mine 

Of  Cornwall,  hollowed  out  beneath  the  bed 

Of  ocean,  when  a  storm  rolls  overhead, 

Hear  the  dull  booming  of  the  world  of  brine 

Above  them,  and  a  mighty  muffled  roar 

Of  winds  and  waters,  yet  toil  calmly  on, 

And  split  the  rock,  and  pile  the  massive  ore, 

Or  carve  a  niche,  or  shape  the  arched  roof; 

So  I,  as  calmly,  weave  my  woof 

Of  song,  chanting  the  days  to  come, 

Unsilenced,  though  the  quiet  summer  air 

Stirs  with  the  bruit  of  battles,  and  each  dawn 

Wakes  from  its  starry  silence  to  the  hum 

Of  many  gathering  armies.     Still, 

In  that  we  sometimes  hear, 

Upon  the  Northern  winds,  the  voice  of  woe 

Not  wholly  drowned  in  triumph,  though  I  know 

The  end  must  crown  us,  and  a  few  brief  years 

Dry  all  our  tears, 

I  may  not  sing  too  gladly.     To  Thy  will 

Eesigned,  0  Lord  !  we  cannot  all  forget 

That  there  is  much  even  Victory  must  regret. 

And,  therefore,  not  too  long 

From  the  great  burthen  of  our  country's  wrong 

Delay  frur  just  release ! 

And,  if  it  may  be,  save 

These  sacred  fields  of  peace 


SPRING.  131 

From  stain  of  patriot  or  of  hostile  blood ! 
Oh,  help  us,  Lord !  to  roll  the  crimson  flood 
Back  on  its  course,  and,  while  our  banners  wing 
Northward,  strike  with  us !  till  the  Goth  shall  cling 
To  his  own  blasted  altar-stones,  and  crave 
Mercy ;  and  we  shall  grant  it,  and  dictate 
The  lenient  future  of  his  fate 

There,  where  some  rotting  ships  and  crumbling  quays 
Shall  one  day  mark  the  Port  which  ruled  the  Western 
seas. 


SPRING. 

Spring,  with  that  nameless  pathos  in  the  air 
Which  dwells  with  all  things  fair, 
Spring,  with  her  golden  suns  and  silver  rain, 
Is  with  us  once  again. 

Out  in  the  lonely  woods  the  jasmine  burns 
Its  fragrant  lamps,  and  turns 
Into  a  royal  court  with  green  festoons 
The  banks  of  dark  lagoons. 

In  the  deep  heart  of  every  forest  tree 
The  blood  is  all  aglee, 

And  there's  a  look  about  the  leafless  bowers 
As  if  they  dreamed  of  flowers. 


132  POEMS  OF  HENRY  TIMROD. 

Yet  still  on  every  side  we  trace  the  band 
Of  Winter  in  the  land, 
Save  where  the  maple  reddens  on  the  lawn, 
Flushed  by  the  season's  dawn  ; 

Or  where,  like  those  strange  semblances  we  find 
That  age  to  childhood  bind, 
The  elm  puts  on,  as  if  in  Nature's  scorn, 
The  brown  of  Autumn  corn. 

As  yet  the  turf  is  dark,  although  you  know 
That,  not  a  span  below, 

A  thousand  germs  are  groping  through  the  gloom, 
And  soon  will  burst  their  tomb. 

Already,  here  and  there,  on  frailest  stems 
Appear  some  azure  gems, 
Small  as  might  deck,  upon  a  gala  day, 
The  forehead  of  a  fay. 

In  gardens  you  may  note  amid  the  dearth 
The  crocus  breaking  earth ; 

And  near  the  snowdrop's  tender  white  and  green, 
The  violet  in  its  screen. 

But  many  gleams  and  shadows  need  must  pass 
Along  the  budding  grass, 
And  weeks  go  by,  before  the  enamored  South 
Shall  kiss  the  rose's  mouth. 

Still  there  's  a  sense  of  blossoms  yet  unborn 
In  the  sweet  airs  of  morn  ; 


SPRING.  133 

One  almost  looks  to  see  the  very  street 
Grow  purple  at  his  feet. 

At  times  a  fragrant  breeze  comes  floating  by, 
And  brings,  you  know  not  why, 
A  feeling  as  when  eager  crowds  await 
Before  a  palace  gate 

Some  wondrous  pageant ;  and  you  scarce  would  start, 
If  from  a  beech's  heart, 

A  blue-eyed  Dryad,  stepping  forth,  should  say, 
"Behold  me!  lam  May!" 

Ah !  who  would  couple  thoughts  of  war  and  crime 

With  such  a  blessed  time! 

Who  in  the  west  wind's  aromatic  breath 

Could  hear  the  call  of  Death ! 

Yet  not  more  surely  shall  the  Spring  awake 
The  voice  of  wood  and  brake, 
Than  she  shall  rouse,  for  all  her  tranquil  charms, 
A  million  men  to  arms. 

There  shall  be  deeper  hues  upon  her  plains 
Than  all  her  sunlit  rains, 
And  every  gladdening  influence  around, 
Can  summon  from  the  ground. 

Oh  !  standing  011  this  desecrated  mould, 
Methinks  that  I  behold, 
Lifting  her  bloody  daisies  up  to  God, 
Spring  kneeling  on  the  sod, 


134  POEMS  OF  HENRY  TIMROD. 

And  calling,  with  the  voice  of  all  her  rills, 
Upon  the  ancient  hills 
To  fall  and  crush  the  tyrants  and  the  slaves 
Who  turn  her  meads  to  graves. 


THE  UNKNOWN  DEAD. 

The  rain  is  plashing  on  my  sill, 

But  all  the  winds  of  Heaven  are  still ; 

And  so  it  falls  with  that  dull  sound 

Which  thrills  us  in  the  church-yard  ground, 

When  the  first  spadeful  drops  like  lead 

Upon  the  coffin  of  the  dead. 

Beyond  my  streaming  window-pane, 

I  cannot  see  the  neighboring  vane, 

Yet  from  its  old  familiar  tower 

The  bell  comes,  muffled,  through  the  shower 

What  strange  and  unsuspected  link 

Of  feeling  touched,  has  made  me  think — 

While  with  a  vacant  soul  and  eye 

I  watch  that  gray  and  stony  sky — 

Of  nameless  graves  on  battle-plains 

Washed  by  a  single  winter's  rains, 

Where,  some  beneath  Virginian  hills, 

And  some  by  green  Atlantic  rills, 

Some  by  the  waters  of  the  West, 

A  myriad  unknown  heroes  rest. 

Ah  !  not  the  chiefs,  who,  dying,  see 


THE   UNKNOWN  DEAD.  135 

Their  flags  in  front  of  victory, 

Or,  at  their  life-blood's  noble  cost 

Pay  for  a  battle  nobly  lost, 

Claim  from  their  monumental  beds 

The  bitterest  tears  a  nation  sheds. 

Beneath  yon  lonely  mound — the  spot 

By  all  save  some  fond  few  forgot — 

Lie  the  true  martyrs  of  the  fight 

Which  strikes  for  freedom  and  for  right. 

Of  them,  their  patriot  zeal  and  pride, 

The  lofty  faith  that  with  them  died, 

No  grateful  page  shall  farther  tell 

Than  that  so  many  bravely  fell; 

And  we  can  only  dimly  guess 

What  worlds  of  all  this  world's  distress, 

What  utter  woe,  despair,  and  dearth, 

Their  fate  has  brought  to  many  a  hearth. 

Just  such  a  sky  as  this  should  weep 

Above  them,  always,  where  they  sleep ; 

Yet,  haply,  at  this  very  hour, 

Their  graves  are  like  a  lover's  bower  ; 

And  Nature's  self,  with  eyes  unwet, 

Oblivious  of  the  crimson  debt 

To  which  she  owes  her  April  grace, 

Laughs  gayly  o'er  their  burial-place. 


136  POEMS  OF  HENRY  TIMROD. 

THE  TWO  ARMIES. 

Two  armies  stand  enrolled  beneath 
The  banner  with  the  starry  wreath  ; 
One,  facing  battle,  blight  and  blast, 
Through  twice  a  hundred  fields  has  passed; 
Its  deeds  against  a  ruffian  foe, 
Stream,  valley,  hill,  and  mountain  know, 
Till  every  wind  that  sweeps  the  land 
Goes,  glory  laden,  from  the  strand. 

The  other,  with  a  narrower  scope, 
Yet  led  by  not  less  grand  a  hope, 
Hath  won,  perhaps,  as  proud  a  place, 
And  wears  its  fame  with  meeker  grace. 
Wives  march  beneath  its  glittering  sign, 
Eond  mothers  swell  the  lovely  line, 
And  many  a  sweetheart  hides  her  blush 
In  the  young  patriot's  generous  flush. 

No  breeze  of  battle  ever  fanned 
The  colors  of  that  tender  band ; 
Its  office  is  beside  the  bed, 
Where  throbs  some  sick  or  wounded  head. 
It  does  not  court  the  soldier's  tomb, 
But  plies  the  needle  and  the  loom  ; 
And,  by  a  thousand  peaceful  deeds, 
Supplies  a  struggling  nation's  needs. 

Nor  is  that  army's  gentle  might 
CTnfelt  amid  the  deadly  fight ; 


A    VISION  OF  POESY.  137 

It  nerves  the  son's,  the  husband's  hand, 
It  points  the  lover's  fearless  brand ; 
It  thrills  the  languid,  warms  the  cold, 
Gives  even  new  courage  to  the  bold; 
And  sometimes  lifts  the  veriest  clod 
To  its  own  lofty  trust  in  God. 

When  Heaven  shall  blow  the  trump  of  peace, 
And  bid  this  weary  warfare  cease, 
Their  several  missions  nobly  done, 
The  triumph  grasped,  and  freedom  won, 
Both  armies,  from  their  toils  at  rest, 
Alike  may  claim  the  victor's  crest, 
But  each  shall  see  its  dearest  prize 
Gleam  softly  from  the  other's  eyes. 


A  VISION  OF  POESY. 

PART  I. 

i. 

In  a  far  country,  and  a  distant  age, 

Ere  sprites  and  fays  had  bade  farewell  to  earth, 
A  boy  was  born  of  humble  parentage ; 

The  stars  that  shone  upon  his  lonely  birth, 
Did  seem  to  promise  sovereignty  and  fame — 
Yet  no  tradition  hath  preserved  his  name. 


138  POEMS  OF  HENRY  TIMROD. 

II. 
"Tis  said  that  on  the  night  when  he  was  born, 

A  beauteous  shape  swept  slowly  through  the  room; 
Its  eyes  broke  on  the  infant  like  a  morn, 

And  his  cheek  brightened  like  a  rose  in  bloom ; 
But  as  it  passed  away  there  followed  after 
A  sigh  of  pain,  and  sounds  of  elvish  laughter. 

in. 
And  so  his  parents  deemed  him  to  be  blest 

Beyond  the  lot  of  mortals;  they  were  poor 
As  the  most  timid  bird  that  stored  its  nest 

With  the  stray  gleanings  at  their  cottage-door : 
Yet  they  contrived  to  rear  their  little  dove, 
And  he  repaid  them  with  the  tenderest  love. 

IV. 

The  child  was  very  beautiful  in  sooth, 
And  as  he  waxed  in  years  grew  lovelier  still ; 

On  his  fair  brow  the  aureole  of  truth 

Beamed,  and  the  purest  maidens,  with  a  thrill, 

Looked  in  his  eyes,  and  from  their  heaven  of  blue 

Saw  thoughts  like  sinless  Angels  peering  through. 

Y. 

Need  there  was  none  of  censure  or  of  praise 
To  mould  him  to  the  kind  parental  hand ; 

Yet  there  was  ever  something  in.  his  ways, 
Which  those  about  him  could  not  understand; 

A  self-withdrawn  and  independent  bliss, 

Beside  the  father's  love,  the  mother's  kiss. 


A    VISION  OF  POESY.  130 

4 

VI. 

For  oft,  when  he  believed  himself  alone, 

They  caught  brief  snatches  of  mysterious  rhymes, 

Which  he  would  murmur  in  an  undertone, 
Like  a  pleased  bee's  in  summer;  and  at  times 

A  strange  far  look  would  come  into  his  eyes, 

As  if  he  saw  a  vision  in  the  skies. 

VII. 

And  he  upon  a  simple  leaf  would  pore 

As  if  its  very  texture  unto  him 
Had  some  deep  meaning;  sometimes  by  the  door, 

From  noon  until  a  summer-day  grew  dim, 
He  lay  and  watched  the  clouds ;  and  to  his  thought 
Night  with  her  stars  but  fitful  slumbers  'brought. 

VIII. 

In  the  long  hours  of  twilight,  when  the  breeze 
Talked  in  low  tones  along  the  woodland  rills. 

Or  the  loud  North  its  stormy  minstrelsies 
Blent  with  wild  noises  from  the  distant  hills, 

The  boy — his  rosy  hand  against  his  ear 

Curved  like  a  sea-shell — hushed  as  some  rapt  seer, 

IX. 

Followed  the  sounds,  and  ever  and  again, 

As  the  wind  came  and  went,  in  storm  or  play, 

He  seemed  to  hearken  as  to  some  far  strain 
Of  mingled  voices  calling  him  away; 

And  they  who  watched  him  held  their  breath  to  trace 

The  still  and  fixed  attention  in  his  face. 


140  POEMS  OF  HENRY  TIMROD. 

X. 

Once,  on  a  cold  and  loud-voiced  winter  night, 
The  three  were  seated  by  their  cottage-fire  — 

The  mother  watching  by  its  nickering  light 
The  wakeful  urchin,  and  the  dozing  sire ; 

There  was  a  brief,  quick  motion  like  a  bird's, 

And  the  boy's  thought  thus  rippled  into  words: 

XL 

"  0  mother !  thou  hast  taught  me  many  things, 
But  none  I  think  more  beautiful  than  speech — 

A  nobler  power  than  even  those  broad  wings 
I  used  to  pray  for,  when  I  longed  to  reach 

That  distant  peak  which  on  our  vale  looks  down, 

And  wears  the  star  of  evening  for  a  crown. 

XII. 

"  But,  mother,  while  our  human  words  are  rife 
To  us  with  meaning,  other  sounds  there  be 

Which  seem,  and  are,  the  language  of  a  life 
Around,  yet  unlike  ours:  winds  talk ;  the  sea 

Murmurs  articulately,  and-the  sky 

Listens,  and  answers,  though  inaudibly. 

XIII. 

"By  stream  and  spring,  in  glades  and  woodlands  loiie, 
Beside  our  very  cot,  I've  gathered  flowers 

Inscribed  with  signs  and  characters  unknown  ; 
But  the  frail  scrolls  still  baffle  all  my  powers : 

What  is  this  language  and  where  is  the  key 

That  opes  its  weird  and  wondrous  mystery  ? 


A    VISION  OF  POESY.  141 

XIV. 
"  The  forests  know  it,  and  the  mountains  know, 

And  it  is  written  in  the  sunset's  dyes ; 
A  revelation  to  the  world  below 

Is  daily  going  on  before  our  eyes ; 
And,  but  for  sinful  thoughts,  I  do  not  doubt 
That  we  could  spell  the  thrilling  secret  out. 

xv. 

"0  mother!  somewhere  on  this  lovely  earth 
I  lived,  and  understood  that  mystic  tongue, 

But,  for  some  reason,  to  my  second  birth 
Only  the  dullest  memories  have  clung,    • 

Like  that  fair  tree  that  even  while  blossoming 

Keeps  the  dead  berries  of  a  former  spring. 

XVI. 

"  Who  shall  put  life  in  these  ? — my  nightly  dreams 
Some  teacher  of  supernal  powers  foretell ; 

A  fair  and  stately  shape  appears,  which  seems 
Bright  with  all  truth ;  and  once,  in  a  dark  dell 

Within  the  forest,  unto  me  there  came 

A  voice  that  must  be  hers,  which  called  my  name." 

XVII. 

Puzzled  and  frightened,  wondering  more  and  more, 
The  mother  heard,  but  did  not  comprehend  ; 

"  So  early  dallying  with  forbidden  lore  ! 

Oh,  what  will  chance,  and  wherein  will  it  end  ? 

My  child !  my  child !  "  she  caught  him  to  her  breast, 

"  Oh,  let  me  kiss  these  wildering  thoughts  to  rest ! 


148  POEMS  OF  HENRT  TIMROD. 

XVIII. 
"  They  cannot  come  from  God,  who  freely  gives 

All  that  we  need  to  have,  or  ought  to  know ; 
Beware,  my  son !  some  evil  influence  strives 

To  grieve  thy  parents,  and  to  work  thee  woe ; 
Alas !  the  vision  I  misunderstood ! 
It  could  not  be  an  angel  fair  and  good." 

XIX. 

And  then,  in  low  and  tremulous  tones,  she  told 
The  story  of  his  birth-night ;  the  boy's  eyes, 

As  the  wild  tale  went  on,  were  bright  and  bold, 
With  a  weird  look  that  did  not  seem  surprise : 

"  Perhaps,"  he  said,  "this  lady  and  her  elves 

Will  one  day  come,  and  take  me  to  themselves." 

xx. 

"  And  wouldst  thou  leave  us  ?  "    "  Dearest  mother,  no ! 

Hush !  I  will  check  these  thoughts  that  give  thee 

pain  ; 
Or,  if  they  flow,  as  they  perchance  must  flow, 

At  least  I  will  not  utter  them  again  ; 
Hark !  didst  thou  hear  a  voice  like  many  streams  ? 
Mother!  it  is  the  spirit  of  my  dreams ! " 

XXI. 

Thenceforth,  whatever  impulse  stirred  below, 
In  the  deep  heart  beneath  that  childish  breast, 

Those  lips  were  sealed,  and  though  the  eye  would  glow, 
Yet  the  brow  wore  an  air  of  perfect  rest ; 


A    VISION  OF  POESY.  143 

Cheerful,  content,  with  calm  though  strong  control 
He  shut  the  temple-portals  of  his  soul. 

XXII. 

And  when  too  restlessly  the  mighty  throng 
Of  fancies  woke  within  his  teeming  mind, 

All  silently  they  formed  in  glorious  song, 
And  floated  off  unheard,  and  undivined, 

Perchance  not  lost — with  many  a  voiceless  prayer 

They  reached  the  sky,  and  found  some  record  there. 

XXIII. 

Softly  and  swiftly  sped  the  quiet  days; 

The  thoughtful  boy  has  blossomed  into  youth, 
And  still  no  maiden  would  have  feared  his  gaze, 

And  still  his  biow  was  noble  with  the  truth  : 
Yet,  though  he  masks  the  pain  with  pious  art, 
There  burns  a  restless  fever  in  his  heart. 

XXIV. 

A  childish  dream  is  now  a  deathless  need 

Which  drives  him  to  far  hills  and  distant  wilds ; 

The  solemn  faith  and  fervor  of  his  creed 
Bold  as  a  martyrs,  simple  as  a  child's ; 

The  eagle  knew  him  as  she  knew  the  blast, 

And  the  deer  did  not  flee  him  as  he  passed. 

XXY. 

But  gentle  even  in  his  wildest  mood, 
Always,  and  most,  he  loved  the  bluest  weather, 


144  POEMS  OF  HENRY  TIMROD. 

And  in  some  soft  and  sunny  solitude 

Couched  like  a  milder  sunshine  on  the  heather, 
He  communed  with  the  winds,  and  with  the  birds, 
As  if  they  might  have  answered  him  in  words. 

XXVI. 

Deep  buried  in  the  forest  was  a  nook 

Eemote  and  quiet  as  its  quiet  skies  ; 
He  knew  it,  sought  it,  loved  it  as  a  book 

Full  of  his  own  sweet  thoughts  and  memories; 
Dark  oaks  and  fluted  chestnuts  gathering  round, 
Pillared  and  greenly  domed  a  sloping  mound. 

XXVII. 

Whereof— white,  purple,  azure,  golden,  red, 
Confused  like  hues  of  sunset — the  wild  flowers 

Wove  a  rich  dais;  through  crosslights  overhead 

Glanced  the  clear  sunshine,  fell  the  fruitful  showers, 

And  here  the  shyest  bird  would  fold  her  wings  ; 

Here  fled  the  fairest  and  the  gentlest  things. 

XXVIII. 

Thither,  one  night  of  mist  and  moonlight,  came 
The  youth,  with  nothing  deeper  in  his  thoughts 

Than  to  behold  beneath  the  silver  flame 
New  aspects  of  his  fair  and  favorite  spot; 

A  single  ray  attained  the  ground,  and  shed 

Just  light  enough  to  guide  the  wanderer's  tread. 


A    VISION  OF  POESY.  145 

XXIX. 

And  high  and  hushed  arose  the  stately  trees, 

Yet  shut  within  themselves,  like  dungeons,  where 

Lay  fettered  all  the  secrets  of  the  breeze ; 

Silent,  but  not  as  slumbering,  all  things  there 

Wore  to  the  youth's  aroused  imagination 

An  air  of  deep  and  solemn  expectation. 

XXX. 

"Hath  Heaven,"  the  youth  exclaimed,  "  a  sweeter  spot, 
Or  Earth  another  like  it? — yet  even  here 

The  old  mystery  dwells !  and  though  I  read  it  not, 
Here  most  I  hope — it  is,  or  seems  so  near; 

So  many  hints  come  to  me,  but,  alas ! 

I  cannot  grasp  the  shadows  as  they  pass. 

XXXI. 

"  Here,  from  the  very  turf  beneath  me,  I 

Catch,  but  just  catch,  I  know  not  what  faint  sound, 
And  darkly  guess  that  from  yon  silent  sky 

Float  starry  emanations  to  the  ground; 
These  ears  are  deaf,  these  human  eyes  are  blind, 
I  want  a  purer  heart,  a  subtler  mind. 

XXXII. 

"  Sometimes — could  it  be  fancy  ? — I  have  felt 
The  presence  of  a  spirit  who  might  speak ; 

As  down  in  lowly  reverence  1  knelt 

Its  very  breath  hath  kissed  my  burning  cheek  ; 

7 


146  POEMS  OF  HENRY  TIMROD. 

But  I  in  vain  have  hushed  my  own  to  hear 
A  wing  or  whisper  stir  the  silent  air!" 

XXXIII. 

Is  not  the  breeze  articulate  ?    Hark !  Oh,  hark ! 

A  distant  murmur,  like  a  voice  of  floods ; 
And  onward  sweeping  slowly  through  the  dark, 

Bursts  like  a  call  the  night-wind  from  the  woods ! 
Low  bow  the  flowers,  the  trees  fling  loose  their  dreams, 
And   through   the  waving  roof  a  fresher  moonlight 
streams. 

XXXIV.    • 

"  Mortal!  " — the  word  crept  slowly  round  the  place 
As  if  that  wind  had  breathed  it !     From  no  star 

Streams  that  soft  lustre  on  the  dreamer's  face. 
Again  a  hushing  calm!  while  faint  and  far 

The  breeze  goes  calling  onward  through  the  night. 

Dear  God  !  what  vision  chains  that  wide-strained  sight  ? 

XXXV. 

Over  the  grass  and  flowers,  and  up  the  slope 

Glides  a  white  cloud  of  mist,  self-moved  and  slow, 

That,  pausing  at  the  hillock's  moonlit  cope, 
Swayed  like  a  flame  of  silver ;  from  below 

The  breathless  youth  with  beating  heart  beholds 

A  mystic  motion  in  its  argent  folds. 

XXXVI. 

Yet  his  young  soul  is  bold,  and  hope  grows  warm, 
As  flashing  through  that  cloud  of  shadowy  crape, 


A    VISION  OF  POESY.  147 

With  sweep  of  robes,  and  then  a  gleaming  arm. 

Slowly  developing,  at  last  took  shape 
A  face  and  form  unutterably  bright, 
That  cast  a  golden  glamour  on  the  night. 

XXXVII. 

But  for  the  glory  round  it  it  would  seem 
Almost  a  mortal  maiden ;  and  the  boy, 

Unto  whom  love  was  yet  an  innocent  dream, 
Shivered  and  crimsoned  with  an  unknown  joy  ; 

As  to  the  young  Spring  bounds  the  passionate  South, 

He  could  have  clasped  and  kissed  her  mouth  to  mouth. 

XXXVIII. 

Yet  something  checked,  that  was  and  was  not  dread, 
Till  in  a  low  sweet  voice  the  maiden  spake ; 

She  was  the  Fairy  of  his  dreams,  she  said, 
And  loved  him  simply  for  his  human  sake; 

And  that  in  heaven,  wherefrom  she  took  her  birth, 

They  called  her  Poesy,  the  angel  of  the  earth. 

xxxix. 

"  And  ever  since  that  immemorial  hour, 

When  the  glad  morning-stars  together  sung, 

My  task  hath  been,  beneath  a  mightier  Power, 
To  keep  the  world  forever  fresh  and  young ; 

I  give  it  not  its  fruitage  and  its  green, 

But  clothe  it  with  a  glory  all  unseen. 


148  POEMS  OF  HENRT  TIMROD. 

XL. 
"  I  sow  the  germ  which  buds  in  human  art, 

And,  with  my  sister,  Science,  I  explore 
With  light  the  dark  recesses  of  the  heart, 

And  nerve  the  will,  and  teach  the  wish  to  soar; 
I  touch  with  grace  the  body's  meanest  clay, 
While  noble  souls  are  nobler  for  my  sway. 

XLI. 
"  Before  my  power  the  kings  of  earth  have  bowed ; 

I  am  the  voice  of  Freedom,  and  the  sword 
Leaps  from  its  scabbard  when  I  call  aloud ; 

Wherever  life  in  sacrifice  is  poured, 
Wherever  martyrs  die  or  patriots  bleed, 
I  weave  the  chaplet  and  award  the  meed. 

XLII. 
"  Where  Passion  stoops,  or  strays,  is  cold,  or  dead, 

I  lift  from  error,  or  to  action  thrill ! 
Or  if  it  rage  too  madly  in  its  bed, 

The  tempest  hushes  at  my  ' peace  !  be  still ! ' 
I  know  how  far  its  tides  should  sink  or  swell, 
And  they  obey  my  sceptre  and  my  spell. 

XLIII. 

"All  lovely  things,  and  gentle — the  sweet  laugh 
Of  children,  Girlhood's  kiss,  and  Friendship's  clasp, 
The  boy  that  sporteth  with  the  old  man's  staff, 
The  baby,  and  the  breast  its  fingers  grasp — 


A    VISION  OF  POESY.  149 

All  that  exalts  the  grounds  of  happiness, 
All  griefs  that  hallow,  and  all  joys  that  bless, 

XLIV. 
"  To  me  are  sacred  ;  at  my  holy  shrine 

Love  breathes  its  latest  dreams,  its  earliest  hints ; 
I  turn  life's  tasteless  waters  into  wine, 

And  flush  them  through  and  through  with  purple 

tints. 

Wherever  Earth  is  fair,  and  Heaven  looks  down, 
I  rear  my  altars,  and  I  wear  my  crown. 

XLV. 

"I  am  the  unseen  spirit  thou  hast  sought, 
I  woke  those  shadowy  questionings  that  vex 

Thy  young  mind,  lost  in  its  own  cloud  of  thought, 
And  rouse  the  soul  they  trouble  and  perplex  ; 

I  filled  thy  days  with  visions,  and  thy  nights 

Blessed  with  all  sweetest  sounds  and  fairy  sights. 

XLVI. 
"  Not  here,  not  in  this  world,  may  I  disclose 

The  mysteries  in  which  this  life  is  hearsed ; 
Some  doubts  there  be  that,  with  some  earthly  woes, 

By  Death  alone  shall  wholly  be  dispersed; 
Yet  on  those  very  doubts  from  this  low  sod 
Thy  soul  shall  pass  beyond  the  stars  to  Grod. 

XLVII. 

"  And  so  to  knowledge,  climbing  grade  by  grade, 
Thou  shalt  attain  whatever  mortals  can, 


150  POEMS  OF  HENRY  TIMROD. 

And  what  thou  maysfc  discover  by  my  aid 

Thou  shalt  translate  unto  thy  brother  man  ; 
And  men  shall  bless  the  power  that  flings  a  ray 
Into  their  night  from  thy  diviner  day. 

XLVIII. 

"  For,  from  thy  lofty  height,  thy  words  shall  fall 
Upon  their  spirits  like  bright  cataracts 

That  front  a  sunrise ;  thou  shalt  hear  them  call 
Amid  their  endless  waste  of  arid  facts, 

As  wearily  they  plod  their  way  along, 

Upon  the  rhythmic  zephyrs  of  thy  song. 

XLIX. 

•'  All  this  is  in  thy  reach,  but  much  depends 
Upon  thyself — thy  future  I  await ; 

I  give  the  genius,  point  the  proper  ends, 
But  the  true  bard  is  his  own  only  Fate ; 

Into  thy  soul  my  soul  have  I  infused  ; 

Take  care  thy  lofty  powers  be  wisely  used. 


"  The  Poet  owes  a  high  and  holy  debt, 
Which,  if  he  feel,  he  craves  not  to  be  heard 

For  the  poor  boon  of  praise,  or  place,  nor  yet 
Does  the  mere  joy  of  song,  as  with  the  bird 

Of  many  voices,  prompt  the  choral  lay 

That  cheers  that  gentle  pilgrim  on  his  way. 


A    VISION  OF  POESY.  15] 

LI. 
"  Nor  may  he  always  sweep  the  passionate  lyre, 

Which  is  his  heart,  only  for  such  relief 
As  an  impatient  spirit  may  desire, 

Lest,  from  the  grave  which  hides  a  private  grief, 
The  spells  of  song  call  up  some  pallid  wraith 
To  blast  or  ban  a  mortal  hope  or  faith. 

LII. 
"  Yet  over  his  deep  soul,  with  all  its  crowd 

Of  varying  hopes  and  fears,  he  still  must  brood; 
As  from  its  azure  height  a  tranquil  cloud 

Watches  its  own  bright  changes  in  the  flood  ; 
Self-reading,  not  self-loving — they  are  twain— 
And  sounding,  while  he  mourns,  the  depths  of  pain. 

LIII. 
"  Thus  shall  his  songs  attain  the  common  breast, 

Dyed  in  his  own  life's  blood,  the  sign  and  seal, 
Even  as  the  thorns  which  are  the  martyr's  crest, 

That  do  attest  his  office,  and  appeal 
Unto  the  universal  human  heart 
In  sanction  of  his  mission  and  his  art. 

LIV. 

"Much  yet  remains  unsaid — pure  must  he  be; 
•  Oh,  blessed  are  the  pure!  for  they  shall  hear 
Where  others  hear  not,  see  where  others  see 

With  a  dazed  vision  :  who  have  drawn  most  near 
My  shrine,  have  ever  brought  a  spirit  cased 
And  mailed  in  a  body  clean  and  chaste. 


152  POEMS  OF  HENRT  TIMROD. 

LV. 
"  The  Poet  to  the  whole  wide  world  belongs, 

Even  as  the  teacher  is  the  child's — I  said 
No  selfish  aim  should  ever  mar  his  songs, 

But  self  wears  many  guises ;  men  may  wed 
Self  in  another,  and  the  soul  may  be 
Self  to  its  centre,  all  unconsciously. 

LVI. 
"And  therefore  must  the  Poet  watch,  lest  he, 

In  the  dark  struggle  of  this  life,  should  take 
Stains  which  he  might  not  notice;  he  must  flee 

Falsehood,  however  winsome,  and  forsake 
All  for  the  Truth,  assured  that  Truth  alone 
Is  Beauty,  and  can  make  him  all  my  own. 

LVII. 
"And  he  must  be  as  armed  warrior  strong, 

And  he  must  be  as  gentle  as  a  girl, 
And  he  must  front,  and  sometimes  suffer  wrong, 

With  brow  unbent,  and  lip  untaught  to  curl; 
For  wrath,  and  scorn,  and  pride,  however  just, 
Fill  the  clear  spirit's  eyes  with  earthly  dust." 


The  story  came  to  rne — it  recks  not  whence — 

In  fragments  ;  Oh  !  if  I  could  tell  it  all, 

If  human  speech  indeed  could  tell  it  all, 

JT  were  not  a  whit  less  wondrous,  than  if  I 

Should  find,  untouched  in  leaf  and  stem,  and  bright 

As  when  it  bloomed  three  thousand  years  ago, 


A    VISION  OF  POESY.  153 

On  some  Idalian  slope,  a  perfect  rose. 
Alas  !  a  leaf  or  two,  and  they  perchance 
Scarce  worth  the  hiving,  one  or  two  dead  leaves 
Are  the  sole  harvest  of  a  summer's  toil. 
There  was  a  moment,  ne'er  to  be  recalled, 
When  to  the  Poet's  hope  within  my  heart, 
They  wore  a  tint  like  life's,  but  in  my  hand, 
I  know  not  why,  they  withered.     I  have  heard 
Somewhere,  of  some  dead  monarch,  from  the  tomb, 
Where  he  had  slept  a  century  and  more, 
Brought  forth,  that  when  the  coffin  was  laid  bare, 
Albeit  the  body  in  its  mouldering  robes 
Was  fleshless,  yet  one  feature  still  remained 
Perfect,  or  perfect  seemed  at  least ;  the  eyes 
Gleamed  for  a  second  on  the  startled  crowd, 
And  then  went  out  in  ashes.     Even  thus 
The  story,  when  I  drew  it  from  the  grave 
Where  it  had  lain  so  long,  did  seem,  I  thought, 
Not  wholly  lifeless  ;  but  even  while  I  gazed 
To  fix  its  features  on  my  heart,  and  called 
The  world  to  wonder  with  me,  lo !  it  proved 
I  looked  upon  a  corpse  ! 

What  further  fell 

In  that  lone  forest  nook,  how  much  was  taught, 
How  much  was  only  hinted,  what  the  youth 
Promised,  if  promise  were  required,  to  do 
Or  strive  for,  what  the  gifts  he  bore  away — 
Or  added  powers  or  blessings — how  at  last, 
The  vision  ended  and  he  sought  his  home, 
How  lived  there,  and  how  long,  and  when  he  passed 


154  POEMS  OF  HENRY  TIMROD. 

Into  the  busy  "world  to  seek  his  fate, 

I  know  not,  and  if  any  ever  knew, 

The  tale  hath  perished  from  the  earth  ;  for  here 

The  slender  thread  on  which  iny  song  is  strung 

Breaks  off,  and  many  after-years  of  life 

Are  lost  to  sight,  the  life  to  reappear 

Only  towards  its  close — as  of  a  dream 

We  catch  the  end  and  opening,  but  forget 

That  which  had  joined  them  in  the  dreaming  brain ; 

Or  as  a  mountain  with  a  belt  of  mist 

That  shows  his  base,  and  far  above,  a  peak 

With  a  blue  plume  of  pines. 

But  turn  the  page 
And  read  the  only  hints  that  yet  remain. 


PART  II. 


It  is  not  winter  yet,  but  that  sweet  time 

In  autumn  when  the  first  cool  days  are  past ; 

A  week  ago,  the  leaves  were  hoar  with  rime, 

And  some  have  dropped  before   the   North  wind's 
blast ; 

But  the  mild  hours  are  back,  and  at  mid-noon, 

The  day  hath  all  the  genial  warmth  of  June. 

n. 

What  slender  form  lies  stretched  along  the  mound  ? 
Can  it  be  his,  the  Wanderer's,  with  that  brow 


A    VISION  OF  POESY.  155 

Gray  in  its  prime,  those  eyes  that  wander  round 

Listlessly,  with  a  jaded  glance  that  now 
Seems  to  see  nothing  where  it  rests,  and  then 
Pores  on  each  trivial  object  in  its  ken  ? 


in. 

See  how  a  gentle  maid's  wan  fingers  clasp 

The  last  fond  love-notes  of  some  faithless  hand ; 

Thus,  with  a  transient  interest,  his  weak  grasp 
Holds  a  few  leaves  as  when  of  old  he  scanned 

The  meaning  in  their  gold  and  crimson  streaks ; 

But  the  sweet  dream  has  vanished!  hush  !  he  speaks  ! 

IV. 

"  Once  more,  once  more,  after  long  pain  and  toil, 
And  yet  not  long,  if  I  should  count  by  years, 

I  breathe  my  native  air,  and  tread  the  soil 
I  trod  in  childhood ;  if  I  shed  no  tears, 

No  happy  tears,  't  is* that  their  fount  is  dry, 

And  joy  that  cannot  weep  must  sigh,  must  sigh. 

v. 

"  These  leaves,  my  boyish  books  in  days  of  yore, 
When,  as  the  weeks  sped  by,  I  seemed  to  stand 

Ever  upon  the  brink  of  some  wild  lore — 

These  leaves  shall  make  my  bed,  and — for  the  hand 

Of  God  is  on  me,  chilling  brain  and  breath — 

I  shall  not  ask  a  softer  couch  in  death. 


156  POEMS  OF  HENRY 


VI. 
"  Here  was  it  that  I  saw,  or  dreamed  I  saw,     * 

I  know  not  which,  that  shape  of  love  and  light. 
Spirit  of  Song  !  have  I  not  owned  thy"  law  ? 

Have  I  not  taught,  or  striven  to  teach  the  right, 
And  kept  my  heart  as  clean,  my  life  as  sweet, 
As  mortals  may,  when  mortals  mortals  meet  ? 

VII. 

"  Thou  knowst  how  I  went  forth,  my  youthful  breast 
On  fire  with  thee,  amid  the  paths  of  men  ; 

Once  in  my  wanderings,  my  lone  footsteps  pressed 
A  mountain  forest;  in  a  sombre  glen, 

Down  which  its  thunderous  boom  a  cataract  flung, 

A  little  bird,  unheeded,  built  and  sung. 

VIII. 
"  So  fell  my  voice  amid  the  whirl  and  rush 

Of  human  passions  ;  if  unto  my  art 
Sorrow  hath  sometimes  owed  a  gentler  gush, 

I  know  it  not  ;  if  any  Poet-heart 
Hath  kindled  at  my  songs  its  light  divine, 
I  know  it  not  ;  no  ray  came  back  to  mine. 

IX. 

"  Alone  in  crowds,  once  more  I  sought  to  make 

Of  senseless  things  my  friends;  the  clouds  that  burn 

Above  the  sunset,  and  the  flowers  that  shake 
Their  odors  in  the  wind  —  these  would  not  turn 


A    VISION  OF  POESY.  157 

• 

Their  faces  from  me ;  far  from  cities,  I 
Forgot  the  scornful  world  that  passed  me  by. 

x. 

"  Yet  even  the  world's  cold  slights  I  might  have  borne, 
Nor  fled,  though  sorrowing;  but  I  shrank  at  last 

When  one  sweet  face,  too  sweet,  I  thought,  for  scorn, 
Looked  scornfully  upon  me;  then  I  passed 

From  all  that  youth  had  dreamed  or  manhood  planned, 

Into  the  self  that  none  would  understand. 

XI. 

"  She  was — I  never  wronged  her  womanhood 
By  crowning  it  with  praises  not  her  own — • 

She  was  all  earth's,  and  earth's,  too,  in  that  mood 
When  she  brings  forth  her  fairest;  I  atone 

Now,  in  this  fading  brow  and  failing  frame, 

That  such  a  soul  such  soul  as  mine  could  tame. 

XII. 

"  Clay  to  its  kindred  clay !  I  loved,  in  sooth, 

Too  deeply  and  too  purely  to  be  blest ; 
With  something  more  of  lust  and  less  of  truth 

She  would  have  sunk  all  blushes  on  my  breast, 
And — but  I  must  not  blame  her — in  my  ear 
Death   whispers!    and  the   end,   thank   God!    draws 
near ! " 

xrn. 
Hist !  on  the  perfect  silence  of  the  place 

Comes  and  dies  off  a  sound  like  far-off  rain 


158  POEMS  OF  HENRY  TIMROD. 

With  voices  mingled ;  on  the  Poet's  face 

A  shadow,  where  no  shadow  should  have  lain, 
Falls  the  next  moment:  nothing  meets  his  sight, 
'Yet  something  moves  betwixt  him  and  the  light. 

XIV. 

And  a  voice  murmurs,  "  Wonder  not,  but  hear ! 

ME  to  behold  again  thou  need'st  not  seek; 
Yet  by  the  dim-felt  influence  on  the  air, 

And  by  the  mystic  shadow  on  thy  cheek, 
Know,  though    thou   mayst  not   touch  with    fleshly 

hands, 
The  genius  of  thy  life  beside  thee  stands ! 

xv. 

"  Unto  no  fault,  0  weary-hearted  one  ! 

Unto  no  fault  of  man's  thou  ow'st  thy  fate ; 
All  human  hearts  that  beat  this  earth  upon, 

All  human  thoughts  and  human  passions  wait 
Upon  the  genuine  bard,  to  him  belong, 
And  help  in  their  own  way  the  Poet's  song. 

XVI. 

"How   blame   the   world?    for  the   world  hast  thou 
wrought  ? 

Or  wast  thou  but  as  one  who  aims  to  fling 
The  weight  of  some  unutterable  thought 

Down  like  a  burden  ?  what  from  questioning 
Too  subtly  thy  own  spirit,  and  to  speech 
But  half  subduing  themes  beyond  the  reach 


A    VISION  OF  POESY.  159 

XVII. 
"  Of  mortal  reason  ;  what  from  living  much 

In  that  dark  world  of  shadows,  where  the  soul 
Wanders  bewildered,  striving  still  to  clutch, 

Yet  never  clutching  once,  a  shadowy  goal, 
Which  always  flies,  and  while  it  flies  seems  near, 
Thy  songs  were  riddles  hard  to  mortal  ear. 

XVIII. 

"  This  was  the  hidden  selfishness  that  marred 
Thy  teachings  ever ;  this  the  false  key-note 

That  on  such  souls  as  might  have  loved  thee  jarred 
Like  an  unearthly  language ;  thou  didst  float 

On  a  strange  water;  those  who  stood  on  land 

Gazed,  but  they  could  not  leave  their  beaten  strand. 

XIX. 

"  Your  elements  were  different,  and  apart — 

The  world's  and  thine — and  even  in  those  intense 

And  watchful  broodings  o'er  thy  inmost  heart, 
It  was  thy  own  peculiar  difference 

That  thou  didst  seek  ;  nor  didst  thou  care  to  find 

Aught  that  would  bring  thee  nearer  to  thy  kind. 

xx. 

"Not  thus  the  Poet,  who  in  blood  and  brain 
Would  represent  his  race  and  speak  for  all, 

Weaves  the  bright  woof  of  that  impassioned  strain 
Which  drapes,  as  if  for  some  high  festival 

Of  pure  delights — whence  few  of  human  birth 

May  rightly  be  shut  out— the  common  earth. 


160  POEMS  OF  HENRY  TIMROD. 

XXI. 

"  As  the  same  law  that  moulds  a  planet,  rounds 
A  drop  of  dew,  so  the  great  Poet  spheres 

Worlds  in  himself;  no  selfish  limit  bounds 
A  sympathy  that  folds  all  characters, 

All  ranks,  all  passions,  and  all  life  almost 

In  its  wide  circle.     Like  some  noble  host, 

XXII. 

"  He  spreads  the  riches  of  his  soul,  and  bids 
Partake  who  will.     Age  has  its  saws  of  truth, 

And  love  is  for  the  maiden's  drooping  lids, 
And  words  of  passion  for  the  earnest  youth  ; 

Wisdom  for  all ;  and  when  it  seeks  relief, 

Tears,  and  their  solace  for  the  heart  of  grief. 

XXIII. 

"  Nor  less  on  him  than  thee  the  mysteries 
Within  him  and  about  him  ever  weigh — 

The  meanings  in  the  stars,  and  in  the  breeze, 
All  the  weird  wonders  of  the  common  day, 

Truths  that  the  merest  point  removes  from  reach, 

And  thoughts  that  pause  upon  the  brink  of  speech ; 

XXIV. 

"  But  on  the  surface  of  his  song  these  lie 
As  shadows,  not  as  darkness  ;  and  alway, 

Even  though  it  breathe  the  secrets  of  the  sky, 
There  is  a  human  purpose  in  the  lay ; 

Thus  some  tall  fir  that  whispers  to  the  stars 

Shields  at  its  base  a  cotter's  lattice-bars. 


A    VISION  OF  POESY.  161 

XXV. 

"  Even  such  my  Poet !  for  thou  still  art  mine  ! 

Thou  mightst  have  been,  and  now  have  calmly  died, 
A  priest,  and  not  a  victim  at  the  shrine ; 

Alas!  yet  was  it  all  thy  fault?     I  chide, 
Perchance,  myself  within  thee,  and  the  fate 
To  which  thy  power  was  solely  consecrate. 

XXVI. 

"  Thy  life  hath  not  been  wholly  without  use, 

Albeit  that  use  is  partly  hidden  now : 
In  thy  unmingled  scorn  of  any  truce 

With  this  world's  specious  falsehoods,  often  thou 
Hast  uttered,  through  some  all  unworldly  song. 
Truths  that  for  man  might  else  have  slumbered  long. 

XXVII. 

"  And  these  not  always  vainly  on  the  crowd 

Have  fallen ;  some  are  cherished  now,  and  some, 

In  mystic  phrases  wrapped  as  in  a  shroud, 
Wait  the  diviner,  who  as  yet  is  dumb 

Upon  the  breast  of  God — the  gate  of  birth 

Closed  on  a  dreamless  ignorance  of  earth. 

XXVIH. 
u  And  therefore,  though  thy  name  shall  pass  away, 

Even  as  a  cloud  that  hath  wept  all  its  showers, 
Yet  as  that  cloud  shall  live  again  one  day 

In  the  glad  grass,  and  in  the  happy  flowers, 
So  in  thy  thoughts,  though  clothed  in  sweeter  rhymes. 
Thy  life  shall  bear  its  flowers  in  future  times." 


162  POEMS  OF  HENRY  TIMROD. 


THE    PAST. 

To-day's  most  trivial  act  may  hold  the  seed 
Of  future  fruitfulness,  or  future  dearth  ; 

Oh,  cherish  always  every  word  and  deed ! 
The  simplest  record  of  thyself  hath. worth. 

If  thou  hast  ever  slighted  one  old  thought, 
Beware  lest  Grief  enforce  the  truth  at  last; 

The  time  must  come  wherein  thou  shalt  be  taught 
The  value  and  the  beauty  of  the  Past. 

Not  merely  as  a  warner  and  a  guide, 

"  A  voice  behind  thee,"  sounding  to  the  strife  ; 

But  something  never  to  be  put  aside, 
A  part  and  parcel  of  thy  present  life. 

Not  as  a  distant  and  a  darkened  sky, 

Through  which  the  stars  peep,  and  the  moonbeams 

glow; 
But  a  surrounding  atmosphere,  whereby 

We  live  and  breathe,  sustained  in  pain  and  woe. 

A  shadowy  land,  where  joy  and  sorrow  kiss, 

Each  still  to  each  corrective  and  relief, 
Where  dim  delights  are  brightened  into  bliss, 

And  nothing  wholly  perishes  but  Grief. 

Ah,  me! — not  dies — no  more  than  spirit  dies  ; 

But  in  a  change  like  death  is  clothed  with  wings ; 
A  serious  angel,  with  entranced  eyes, 

Looking  to  far-off  and  celestial  things. 


PRECEPTOR  AM  AT.  163 


PRECEPTOR  AMAT. 

It  is  time  (it  was  time  long  ago)  I  should  sever 
This  chain — why  I  wear  it  I  know  not — forever ! 
Yet  I  cling  to  the  bond,  e'en  while  sick  of  the  mask 
I  must  wear,  as  of  one  whom  his  commonplace  task 
And  proof-armorofdullnesshave  steeled  to  her  charms ! 
Ah  !  how  lovely  she  looked  as  she  flung  from  her  arms, 
In  heaps  to  this  table  (now  starred  with  the  stains 
Of  her  booty  yet  wet  with  those  yesterday  rains), 
These  roses  and  lilies,  and — what?  let  me  see! 
Then  was  off  in  a  moment,  but  turned  with  a  glee. 
That  lit  her  sweet  face  as  with  moonlight,  to  say, 
As  't  was  almost  too  late  for  a  lesson  to-day, 
She  meant  to  usurp,  for  this  morning  at  least, 
My  office  of  Tutor ;  and  instead  of  a  feast 
Of  such  mouthfuls  as  polupliloisboio  thalasses, 
With  which  I  fed  her,  I  should  study  the  grasses 
(Love-grasses   she   called    them),   the   buds,  and  the 

flowers 

Of  which  I  know  nothing ;  and  if  "  with  my  powers," 
I  did  not  learn  all  she  could  teach  in  that  time. 
And  thank  her,  perhaps,  in  a  sweet  English  rhyme, 
If  I  did  not  do  this,  and  she  flung  back  her  hair, 
And  shook  her  bright  head  with  a  menacing  air, 
She'd  be — oh  !  she'd  be — a  real  Saracen  Omar 
To  a  certain  much- valued  edition  of  Homer  ! 
But  these  flowers !  I  believe  I  could  number  as  soon 
The  shadowy  thoughts  of  a  last  summer's  noon, 


164  POEMS  OF  HENRY  TIMROD. 

Or  recall  with  their  phases,  each  one  after  one, 

The  clouds  that  came  down  to  the  death  of  the  Sun. 

Cirrus,  Stratus,  or  Nimbus,  some  evening  last  year, 

As  unravel  the  web  of  one  genus  !     Why,  there, 

As  they  lie  by  my  desk  in  that  glistering  heap, 

All  tangled  together  like  dreams  in  the  sleep 

Of  a  bliss-fevered  heart,  I  might  turn  them  and  turn 

Till  night,  in  a  puzzle  of  pleasure,  and  learn 

Not  a  fact,  not  a  secret  I  prize  half  so  much, 

As,  how  rough  is  this  leaf  when  I  think  of  her  touch. 

There's  one  now  blown  yonder !  what  can  be  its  name  ? 

A  topaz  wine-colored,  the  wine  in  a  flame ; 

And  another  that's  hued  like  the  pulp  of  a  melon, 

But  sprinkled  all  o'er  as  with  seed-pearls  of  Ceylon ; 

And  a  third!  its  white  petals  just  clouded  with  pink  ! 

And  a  fourth,  that  blue  star !  and  then  this,  too !  I 

think 

If  one  brought  me  this  moment  an  amethyst  cup, 
From  which,  through  a  liquor  of  amber,  looked  up, 
With  a  glow  as  of  eyes  in  their  elfin-like  lustre, 
Stones  culled  from  all  lands  in  a  sunshiny  cluster, 
From  the  ruby  that  burns  in  the  sands  of  Mysore 
To  the  beryl  of  Daunia,  with  gems  from  the  core 
Of  the  mountains  of  Persia  (I  talk  like  a  boy 
In  the  flush  of  some  new,  and  yet  half- tasted  joy)  ; 
But  I  think  if  that  cup  and  its  jewels  together 
Were  placed  by  the  side  of  this  child  of  the  weather 
(This  one  which  she  touched  with  her  mouth,  and  let 

slip 
From  her  fingers  by  chance,  as  her  exquisite  lip, 


PRECEPTOR  AMAT.  165 

With  a  music  befitting  the  language  divine, 

Gave  the  roll  of  the  Greek's  multitudinous  line), 

I  should  take — not  the   gems — but  enough !   let  me 

shut 

In  the  blossom  that  woke  it,  my  folly,  and  put 
Both  away  in  my  bosom — there,  in  a  heart-niche, 
One  shall  outlive  the  other — is  't  hard  to  tell  which? 
In  the  name  of  all  starry  and  beautiful  things, 
What  is  it  ?  the  cross  in  the  centre,  these  rings, 
And  the  petals  that  shoot  in  an  intricate  maze, 
From  the  disk  which  is  lilac — or  purple  ?  like  rays 
In  a  blue  Aureole  ! 


And  so  now  will  she  wot, 

When  I  sit  by  her  side  with  my  brows  in  a  knot. 
And  praise  her  so  calmly,  or  chide  her  perhaps, 
If  her  voice  falter  once  in  its  musical  lapse, 
As  I've  done,  I  confess,  just  to  gaze  at  a  flush 
In  the  white  of  her  throat,  or  to  watch  the  quick  rush 
Of  the  tear  she  sheds  smiling,  as,  drooping  her  curls 
O'er  that  book  I  keep  shrined  like  a  casket  of  pearls, 
She  reads  on  in  low  tones  of  such  tremulous  sweetness, 
That  (in  spite  of  some  faults)  I  am  forced,  in  discreet 
ness, 

To  silence,  lest  mine,  growing  hoarse,  should  betray 
What  I  must  not  reveal — will  she  guess  now,  I  say, 
How,  for  all  his  grave  looks,  the  stern,  passionless 

Tutor, 
With  more  than  the  love  of  her  youthfulest  suitor, 


166  POEMS  OF  HENRY  TIMROD. 

Is  hiding  somewhere  in  the  shroud  of  his  vest. 

By  a  heart  that  is  beating  wild  wings  in  its  nest, 

This  flower,  thrown  aside  in  the  sport  of  a  minute, 

And  which  he  holds  dear  as  though  folded  within  it 

Lay  the  germ  of  the  bliss  that  he  dreams  of!    Ah,  me  ! 

It  is  hard  to  love  thus,  yet  to  seem  and  to  be 

A  thing  for  indifference,  faint  praise,  or  cold  blame, 

When  you  long  (by  the  right  of  deep  passion,  the  claim, 

On  the  loved  of  the  loving,  at  least  to  be  heard) 

To  take  the  white  hand,  and  with  glance,  touch,  and 

word, 
Burn  your  way  to  the  heart !    That  her  step  on  the 

stair  ? 
Be  still  thou  fond  flatterer ! 

How  little  I  care 

For  your  favorites,  see!  they  are  all  of  them,  look! 
On  the  spot  where  they  fell,  and — but  here  is  your 
book! 


DREAMS. 

"Who  first  said  "  false  as  dreams  ?  "    Not  one  who  saw 
Into  the  wild  and  wondrous  world  they  sway; 

No  thinker  who  hath  read  their  mystic  law ; 
No  Poet  who  hath  weaved  them  in  his  lay. 

Else  had  he  known  that  through  the  human  breast 
Cross  and  recross  a  thousand  fleeting  gleams, 


DREAMS.  167 

That,  passed  unnoticed  in  the  day's  unrest, 

Come  out  at  night,  like  stars,  in  shining  dreams ; 

That  minds  too  busy  or  too  dull  to  mark 
The  dim  suggestion  of  the  noisier  hours, 

By  dreams  in  the  deep  silence  of  the  dark, 
Are  roused  at  midnight  with  their  folded  powers. 

Like  that  old  fount  beneath  Dodona's  oaks, 
That,  dry  and  voiceless  in  the  garish  noon, 

When  the  calm  night  arose  with  modest  looks, 
Caught  with  full  wave  the  sparkle  of  the  moon. 

If,  now  and  then,  a  ghastly  shape  glide  in, 
And  fright  us  with  its  horrid  gloom  or  glee, 

It  is  the  ghost  of  some  forgotten  sin 
We  failed  to  exorcise  on  bended  knee. 

And  that  sweet  face  which  only  yesternight 
Came  to  thy  solace,  dreamer  (didst  thou  read 

The  blessing  in  its  eyes  of  tearful  light  ?) 
Was  but  the  spirit  of  some  gentle  deed. 

Each  has  its  lesson  ;  for  our  dreams  in  sooth, 
Come  they  in  shape  of  demons,  gods,  or  elves, 

Are  allegories  with  deep  hearts  of  truth 
That  tell  us  solemn  secrets  of  ourselves. 


168  POEMS  OF  HENRY  TIMROD. 


THE   PROBLEM. 

Not  to  win  thy  favor,  maiden,  not  to  steal  away  thy 

heart, 
Have  I  ever  sought  thy  presence,  ever  stooped  to  any 

art; 
Thou  wast  but  a  wildering  problem,  which  I  aimed  to 

solve,  and  then 
Make  it  matter  for  my  note-book,  or  a  picture  for  my 

pen. 
So,  I  daily  conned  thee  over,  thinking  it  no  dangerous 

task, 
Peeping  underneath  thy  lashes,  peering  underneath 

thy  mask — 

For  thou  wear'st  one — no  denial !  there  is  much  with 
in  thine  eyes; 
But  those  stars  have  other  secrets  than  are  patent  in 

their  skies. 
And  I  read  thee,  read  thee  closely,  every  grace  and 

every  sin, 
Looked  behind  the  outward  seeming  to  the  strange 

wild  world  within, 
Where  thy  future  self  is  forming,  where  I  saw — no 

matter  what ! 
There  was  something  less  than  angel,  there  was  many 

an  earthly  spot ; 
Yet  so  beautiful  thy  errors  that  I  had  no  heart  for 

blame, 
And  thy  virtues  made   thee  dearer  than  my  dearest 

hopes  of  fame ; 


THE  PROBLEM.  169 

All   so   blended,  that  in  wishing  one   peculiar   trait 

removed, 
We  indeed   might  make  thee  better,  but  less  lovely 

and  less  loved. 

All  my  mind  was  in  the  study — so  two  thrilling  fort 
nights  passed — 
All  my  mind  was  in   the  study — till  my  heart  was 

touched  at  last. 
Well !  and  then  the  book  was  finished,  the  absorbing 

task  was  done, 
I  awoke  as  one  who  had  been  dreaming  in  a  noonday 

sun ; 
With  a  fever  on  my  forehead,  and  a  throbbing  in  my 

brain, 
In  my  soul  delirious  wishes,  in  my  heart  a  lasting 

pain; 
Yet   so   hopeless,  yet   so   cureless — as  in  every  great 

despair — 
I  was  very  calm  and  silent,  and  I  never  stooped  to 

prayer, 
Like  a  sick  man  unattended,  reckless  of  the  coming 

death, 
Only  for  he  knows  it  certain,  and  he  feels  no  sister's 

breath. 

All  the  while  as  by  an  Ate,  with  no  pity  in  her  face, 
Yet  with  eyes  of  witching  beauty,  and  with  form  of 

matchless  grace, 
I  was  haunted  by  thy  presence,  oh!  for  weary  nights 

and  days, 
I  was  haunted  by  thy  spirit,  I  was  troubled  by  thy  gaze, 


170  POEMS  OF  HENRY  TIMROD. 

And  the   question  which  to   answer  I  had  taxed  a 

subtle  brain, 
What  thou  art,  and  what  thou  wilt  be,  came  again 

and  yet  again  ; 
With  its  opposite  deductions,  it  recurred  a  thousand 

times, 

Like  a  coward's  apprehensions,  like  a  madman's  favor 
ite  rhymes. 
But  to-night  my  thoughts  flow  calmer — in  thy  room 

I  think  I  stand, 
See  a  fair  white  page  before  thee,  and  a  pen  within  thy 

hand; 
And  thy  fingers  sweep  the  paper,  and  a  light  is  in 

thine  eyes, 
Whilst  I  read  thy  secret  fancies,  whilst  I  hear  thy 

secret  sighs. 
What  they  are  I  will  not  whisper,  those  are  lovely, 

these  are  deep, 
But  one  name  is  left  unwritten,  that  is  only  breathed 

in  sleep. 
Is  it  wonder  that  my  passion  bursts  at  once  from  out 

its  nest  ? 
I  have  bent  my  knee  before  thee,  and  my  love  is  all 

confessed ; 
Though   I  knew  that  name   unwritten  was  another 

name  than  mine, 
Though  I  felt  those  sighs  half  murmured  what  I  could 

but  half  divine. 
Aye !  I  hear  thy  haughty  answer !     Aye  !  I  see  thy 

proud  lip  curl ! 


THE  PROBLEM.  171 

"What  presumption,  and  what  folly!  "why,  I  only 

love  a  girl 
With  some  very  winning  graces,  with  some  very  noble 

traits, 
But  no  better  than  a  thousand  who  have  bent  to 

humbler  fates. 
That  I  ask  not ;  I  have,  maiden,  just  as  haught  a  soul 

as  thine ; 
If  thou  think'st  thy  place  above  me,  thou  shalt  never 

stoop  to  mine. 
Yet  as  long  as  blood  runs  redly,  yet  as  long  as  mental 

worth 

Is  a  nobler  gift  than  fortune,  is  a  holier  thing  than  birth, 
I  will  claim  the  right  to  utter,  to  the  high  and  to  the 

low, 
That  I  love  them,  or  I  hate  them,  that  I  am  a  friend 

or  foe. 
Nor  shall  any  slight  unman   me ;  I  have  yet  some 

little  strength, 
Yet  my  song  shall  sound  as  sweetly,  yet  a  power  be 

mine  at  length  ! 
Then,  oh,  then  !  but  moans  are  idle — hear  me,  pitying 

saints  above ! 

With  a  chaplet  on  my  forehead,  I  will  justify  my  love. 
And  perhaps  when   thou    art  leaning  on  some   less 

devoted  breast, 
Thou   shalt  murmur,   "He   was   worthier   than   my 

blinded  spirit  guessed." 


172  POEMS  OF  HENRT  TIMROD. 


THE   ARCTIC  VOYAGER. 

Shall  I  desist,  twice  baffled  ?     Once  by  land, 

And  once  by  sea,  I  fought  and  strove  with  storms, 

All  shades  of  danger,  tides,  and  weary  calms ; 

Head-currents,  cold  and  famine,  savage  beasts, 

And  men  more  savage;  all  the  while  my  face 

Looked  northward  toward  the  pole ;  if  mortal  strength 

Could  have  sustained  me,  I  had  never  turned 

Till  I  had  seen  the  star  which  never  sets 

Freeze  in  the  Arctic  zenith.     That  I  failed 

To  solve  the  mysteries  of  the  ice-bound  world, 

Was  not  because  I  faltered  in  the  quest. 

Witness  those  pathless  forests  which  conceal 

The  bones  of  perished  comrades,  that  long  march, 

Blood-tracked  o'er  flint  and  snow,  and  one  dread  night 

By  Athabasca,  when  a  cherished  life 

Flowed  to  give  life  to  others.     This,  and  worse, 

I  suffered — let  it  pass — it  has  not  tamed 

My  spirit  nor  the  faith  which  was  my  strength. 

Despite  of  waning  years,  despite  the  world 

Which  doubts,  the  few  who  dare,  I  purpose  now — 

A  purpose  long  and  thoughtfully  resolved, 

Through  all  its  grounds  of  reasonable  hope — 

To  seek  beyond  the  ice  which  guards  the  Pole, 

A  sea  of  open  water ;  for  I  hold, 

Not  without  proofs,  that  such  a  sea  exists, 

And  may  be  reached,  though  since  this  earth  was  made 

No  keel  hath  ploughed  it,  and  to  mortal  ear 


A    YEAR'S  COURTSHIP.  173 

No  wind  hath  told  its  secrets  ....  With  this  tide 

I  sail ;  if  all  be  well,  this  very  moon 

Shall  see  my  ship  beyond  the  southern  cape 

Of  Greenland,  and  far  up  the  bay  through  which, 

With  diamond  spire  and  gorgeous  pinnacle, 

The  fleets  of  winter  pass  to  warmer  seas. 

Whether,  my  hardy  shipmates  !  we  shall  reach 

Our  bourne,  and  come  with  tales  of  wonder  back, 

Or  whether  we  shall  lose  the  precious  time, 

Locked  in  thick  ice,  or  whether  some  strange  fate 

Shall  end  us  all,  I  know  not ;  but  I  know 

A  lofty  hope,  if  earnestly  pursued, 

Is  its  own  crown,  and  never  in  this  life 

Is  labor  wholly  fruitless.     In  this  faith 

I  shall  not  count  the  chances — sure  that  all 

A  prudent  foresight  asks  we  shall  not  want, 

And  all  that  bold  and  patient  hearts  can  do 

Ye  will  not  leave  undone.     The  rest  is  God's ! 


A  YEAR'S  COUETSHIP. 

I  saw  her,  Harry,  first,  in  March — 

You  know  the  street  that  leadeth  down 

By  the  old  bridge's  crumbling  arch  ? — 
Just  where  it  leaves  the  dusty  town 

A  lonely  house  stands  grim  and  dark — 
You've  seen  it  ?  then  I  need  not  say 


174  POEMS  OF  HENRY  TIMROD. 

How  quaint  the  place  is — did  you  mark 
An  ivied  window  ?  well !  one  day, 

I,  chasing  some  forgotten  dream, 

And  in  a  poet's  idlest  mood, 
Caught,  as  I  passed,  a  white  hand's  gleam — 

A  shutter  opened — there  she  stood 

Training  the  ivy  to  its  prop. 

Two  dark  eyes  and  a  brow  of  snow 
Flashed  down  upon  me — did  I  stop  ? — 

She  says  I  did — I  do  not  know. 

But  all  that  day  did  something  glow 

Just  where  the  heart  beats ;  frail  and  slight, 

A  germ  had  slipped  its  shell,  and  now 
Was  pushing  softly  for  the  light. 

And  April  saw  me  at  her  feet, 

Dear  month  of  sunshine  and  of  rain  ! 

My  very  fears  were  sometimes  sweet, 
And  hope  was  often  touched  with  pain. 

For  she  was  frank,  and  she  was  coy, 

A  willful  April  in  her  ways : 
And  in  a  dream  of  doubtful  joy 

I  passed  some  truly  April  days. 

May  came,  and  on  that  arch,  sweet  mouth, 
The  smile  was  graver  in  its  play, 

And,  softening  with  the  softening  South, 
My  April  melted  into  May. 


A    YEAR'S  COURTSHIP.  175 

She  loved  me,  yet  my  heart  would  doubt, 
And  ere  I  spoke  the  month  was  June — 

One  warm  still  night  we  wandered  out 
To  watch  a  slowly  setting  moon. 

Something  which  I  saw  not — my  eyes 
Were  not  on  heaven — a  star,  perchance, 

Or  some  bright  drapery  of  the  skies, 
Had  caught  her  earnest,  upper  glance. 

And  as  she  paused — Hal !  we  have  played 

Upon  the  very  spot — a  fir 
Just  touched  me  with  its  dreamy  shade, 

But  the  full  moonlight  fell  on  her — 

And  as  she  paused — I  know  not  why— 
I  longed  to  speak,  yet  could  not  speak ; 

The  bashful  are  the  boldest — I— 

I  stooped  and  gently  kissed  her  cheek. 

A  murmur  (else  some  fragrant  air 

Stirred  softly)  and  the  faintest  start — 

0  Hal !  we  were  the  happiest  pair ! 
0  Hal !  I  clasped  her  heart  to  heart ! 

And  kissed  away  some  tears  that  gushed ; 

But  how  she  trembled,  timid  dove, 
When  my  soul  broke  its  silence,  flushed 

With  a  whole  burning  June  of  love.    . 

Since  then  a  happy  year  hath  sped 

Through  months  that  seemed  all  June  and  May, 


176  POEMS  OF  HENRT  TIMROD. 

And  soon  a  March  sun,  overhead, 
Will  usher  in  the  crowning  day. 

Twelve  blessed  moons  that  seemed  to  glow 
All  summer,  Hal ! — my  peerless  Kate ! 

She  is  the  dearest — "  Angel  ?  " — no  ! 

Thank  God  ! — but  you  shall  see  her — wait. 

So  all  is  told  !  I  count  on'  thee 

To  see  the  Priest,  Hal !     Pass  the  wine  ! 

Here's  to  my  darling  wife  to.be ! 

And  here's  to — when  thou  find'st  her — thine ! 


DRAMATIC  FEAGMEJSTT. 

Let  the  boy  have  his  will !  I  tell  thee,  brother, 
We  treat  these  little  ones  too  much  like  flowers, 
Training  them,  in  blind  selfishness,,  to  deck 
Sticks  of  our  poor  setting,  when  they  might, 
If  left  to  clamber  where  themselves  incline, 
Find  nobler  props  to  cling  to,  fitter  place, 
And  sweeter  air  to  bloom  in.     It  is  wrong — 
Thou  striv'st  to  sow  with  feelings  all  thine  own, 
With  thoughts  and  hopes,  anxieties  and  aims, 
Born  of  thine  own  peculiar  self,  and  fed 
Upon  a  certain  round  of  circumstance, 
A  soul  as  different  and  distinct  from  thine 
As  love  of  goodness  is  from  love  of  glory, 
Or  noble  poesy  from  noble  prose. 


DRAMATIC  FRAGMENT.  177 

I  could  forgive  thee,  if  thou  wast  of  them 
Who  do  their  fated  parts  in  this  world's  business, 
Scarce  knowing  how  or  why — for  common  minds 
See  not  the  difference  'twixt  themselves  and  others — 
But  thou,  thou,  with  the  visions  which  thy  youth  did 

cherish 

Substantialized  upon  thy  regal  brow, 
Shouldst. boast  a  deeper  insight.    "We  are  born, 
It  is  my  faith,  in  miniature  completeness, 
And  like  each  other  only  in  our  weakness. 
Even  with  our  mother's  milk  upon  our  lips, 
Our  smiles  have  different  meanings,  and  our  hands 
Press  with  degrees  of  softness  to  her  bosom. 
It  is  not  change — whatever  in  the  heart 
That  wears  its  semblance,  we,  in  looking  back, 
With  gratulation  or  regret,  perceive — 
It  is  not  change  we  undergo,  but  only 
Growth  or  development.     Yes  !  what  is  childhood 
But  after  all  a  sort  of  golden  daylight, 
A  beautiful  and  blessed  wealth  of  sunshine. 
Wherein  the  powers  and  passions  of  the  soul 
Sleep  starlike  but  existent,  till  the  night 
Of  gathering  years  shall  call  the  slumbers  forth, 
And  they  rise  up  in  glory  ?    Early  grief, 
A  shadow  like  the  darkness  of  eclipse, 
Hath  sometimes  waked  them  sooner. 


178  POEMS  OF  HENRY  TIMROD. 


THE  SUMMER  BOWER. 

It  is  a  place  whither  I've  often  gone 

For  peace,  and  found  it,  secret,  hushed,  and  cool, 

A  beautiful  recess  in  neighboring  woods. 

Trees  of  the  soberest  hues,  thick-leaved  and  tall, 

Arch  it  overhead  and  column  it  around, 

Framing  a  covert,  natural  and  wild, 

Domelike  and  dim  ;  though  nowhere  so  enclosed 

But  that  the  gentlest  breezes  reach  the  spot 

Unwearied  and  unweakened.     Sound  is  here 

A  transient  and  unfrequent  visitor ; 

Yet  if  the  day  be  calm,  not  often  then. 

Whilst  the  high  pines  in  one  another's  arms 

Sleep,  you  may  sometimes  with  unstartled  ear 

Catch  the  far  fall  of  voices,  how  remote 

You  know  not,  and  you  do  not  care  to  know. 

The  turf  is  soft  and  green,  but  not  a  flower 

Lights  the  recess,  save  one,  star-shaped  and  bright — • 

I  do  not  know  its  name — which  here  and  there 

Gleams  like  a  sapphire  set  in  emerald. 

A  narrow  opening  in  the  branched  roof, 

A  single  one,  is  large  enough  to  show, 

With  that  half  glimpse  a  dreamer  loves  so  much, 

The  blue  air  and  the  blessing  of  the  sky. 

Thither  I  always  bent  my  idle  steps, 

When  griefs  depressed,  or  joys  disturbed  my  heart, 

And  found  the  calm  I  looked  for,  or  returned 

Strong  with  the  quiet  rapture  in  my  soul. 


THE  SUMMER  BOWER.  179 

But  one  day, 

One  of  those  July  days  when  winds  have  fled 
One  knows  not  whither,  I,  most  sick  in  mind 
With  thoughts  that  shall  be  nameless,  yet,  no  doubt, 
Wrong,  or  at  least  unhealthful,  since  though  dark 
With  gloom,  and  touched  with  discontent,  they  had 
No  adequate  excuse,  nor  cause,  nor  end, 
I,  with  these  thoughts,  and  on  this  summer  day, 
Entered  the  accustomed  haunt,  and  found  for  once 
No  medicinal  virtue. 

Not  a  leaf 

Stirred  with  the  whispering  welcome  which  1  sought, 
But  in  a  close  and  humid  atmosphere, 
Every  fair  plant  and  implicated  bough 
Hung  lax  and  lifeless.     Something  in  the  place, 
Its  utter  stillness,  the  unusual  heat, 
And  some  more  secret  influence,  I  thought, 
Weighed  on  the  sense  like  sin.    Above  I  saw, 
Though  not  a  cloud  was  visible  in  heaven, 
The  pallid  sky  look  through  a  glazed  mist 
Like  a  blue  eye  in  death. 

The  change,  perhaps, 
Was  natural  enough  ;  my  jaundiced  sight, 
The  weather,  and  the  time  explain  it  all : 
Yet  have  I  drawn  a  lesson  from  the  spot, 
And  shrined  it  in  these  verses  for  my  heart. 
Thenceforth  those  tranquil  precincts  I  have  sought 
Not  less,  and  in  all  shades  of  various  moods; 
But  always  shun  to  desecrate  the  spot 
By  vain  repinings,  sickly  sentiments, 


180  POEMS  OF  HENRY  TIMROD. 

Or  inconclusive  sorrows.    Nature,  though 
Pure  as  she  was  in  Eden  when  her  breath 
Kissed  the  white  brow  of  Eve,  doth  not  refuse, 
In  her  own  way  and  with  a  just  reserve, 
To  sympathize  with  human  suffering; 
But  for  the  pains,  the  fever,  and.  the  fret 
Engendered  of  a  weak,  unquiet  heart, 
She  hath  no  solace ;  and  who  seeks  her  when 
These  be  the  troubles  over  which  he  moans, 
Reads  in  her  unreplying  lineaments 
Eebukes,  that,  to  the  guilty  consciousness, 
Strike  like  contempt. 


A  RHAPSODY  OF  A  SOUTHERN  WINTER 
NIGHT. 

Oh !  dost  thou  flatter  falsely,  Hope  ? 
The  day  hath  scarcely  passed  that  saw  thy  birth, 
Yet  thy  white  wings  are  plumed  to  all  their  scope, 
And  hour  by  hour  thine  eyes  have  gathered  light, 

And  grown  so  large  and  bright, 
That  my  whole  future  life  unfolds  what  seems, 

Beneath  their  gentle  beams, 
A  path  that  leads  athwart  some  guiltless  earth, 
To  which  a  star  is  dropping  from  the  night ! 

Not  many  moons  ago, 
But  when  these  leafless  beds  were  all  aglow 
With  summer's  dearest  treasures,  I 


A   SOUTHERN  WINTER  NIGHT.  .    181 

Was  reading  in  this  lonely  garden-nook; 
A  July  noon  was  cloudless  in  the  sky, 
And  soon  I  put  my  shallow  studies  by ; 
Then,  sick  at  heart,  and  angered  by  the  book, 
Which,  in  good  sooth,  was  but  the  long-drawn  sigh 
Of  some  one  who  had  quarrelled  with  his  kind, 
Vexed  at  the  very  proofs  which  I  had  sought, 
And  all  annoyed  while  all  alert  to  find 
A  plausible  likeness  of  my  own  dark  thought, 
I  cast  me  down  beneath  yon  oak's  wide  boughs, 
And,  shielding  with  both  hands  my  throbbing  brows, 
Watched  lazily  the  shadows  of  my  brain. 
The  feeble  tide  of  peevishness  went  down, 
And  left  a  flat  dull  waste  of  dreary  pain, 
Which  seemed  to  clog  the  blood  in  every  vein  ; 
The  world,  of  course,  put  on  its  darkest  frown- 
In  all  its  realms  I  saw  no  mortal  crown 
Which  did  not  wound  or  crush  some  restless  head ; 
And  hope,  and  will,  and  motive,  all  were  dead. 
So,  passive  as  a  stone,  I  felt  too  low 
To  claim  a  kindred  with  the  humblest  flower ; 
Even  that  would  bare  its  bosom  to  a  shower, 
While  I  henceforth  would  take  no  pains  to  live, 
Nor  place  myself  where  I  might  feel  or  give 
A  single  impulse  whence  a  wish  could  grow. 
There  was  a  tulip  scarce  a  gossamer's  throw 
Beyond  that  platanus.     A  little  child, 
Most  dear  to  me,  looked  through  the  fence  and  smiled 
A  hint  that  I  should  pluck  it  for  her  sake. 
Ah,  me  !     I  trust  I  was  not  well  awake — 


182  POEMS  OF  HENRY  TIMROD. 

The  voice  was  very  sweet, 
Yet  a  faint  languor  kept  me  in  my  seat. 
I  saw  a  pouted  lip,  a  toss,  and  heard 
Some  low  expostulating  tones,  but  stirred 
Not  even  a  leafs  length,  till  the  pretty  fay, 
Wondering,  and  half  abashed  at  the  wild  feat, 
Climbed  the  low  pales,  and  laughed  my  gloom  away. 

And  here  again,  but  led  by  other  powers, 
A  morning  and  a  golden  afternoon, 
These  happy  stars,  and  yonder  setting  moon, 
Have  seen  me  speed,  unreckoned  and  untasked, 

A  round  of  precious  hours. 
Oh !  here,  where  in  that  summer  noon  I  basked, 
And  strove,  with  logic  frailer  than  the  flowers, 
To  justify  a  life  of  sensuous  rest, 
A  question  dear  as  home  or  heaven  was  asked, 
And  without  language  answered.    I  was  blest ! 
Blest  with  those  nameless  boons  too  sweet  to  trust 
Unto  the  telltale  confidence  of  song. 
Love  to  his  own  glad  self  is  sometimes  coy, 
And  even  thus  much  doth  seem  to  do  him  wrong; 
While  in  the  fears  which  chasten  mortal  joy, 
Is  one  that  shuts  the  lips,  lest  speech  too  free, 
With  the  cold  touch  of  hard  reality, 
Should  turn  its  priceless  jewels  into  dust. 
Since  that  long  kiss  which  closed  the  morning's  talk, 
I  have  not  strayed  beyond  this  garden  walk. 
As  yet  a  vague  delight  is  all  I  know, 
A  sense  of  joy  so  wild  'tis  almost  pain, 


A  SOUTHERN  WINTER  NIGHT.  183 

And  like  a  trouble  drives  me  to  and  fro, 

And  will  not  pause  to  count  its  own  sweet  gain. 

I  am  so  happy !  that  is  all  my  thought. 

To-morrow  I  will  turn  it  round  and  round, 

And  seek  to  know  its  limits  and  its  ground. 

To-morrow  I  will  task  my  heart  to  learn 

The  duties  which  shall  spring  from  such  a  seed, 

And  where  it  must  be  sown,  and  how  be  wrought. 

But  oh  !  this  reckless  bliss  is  bliss  indeed! 

And  for  one  day  I  choose  to  seal  the  urn 

Wherein  is  shrined  Love's  missal  and  his  creed. 

Meantime  I  give  my  fancy  all  it  craves ; 

Like  him  who  found  the  West  when  first  he  caught 

The  light  that  glittered  from  the  world  he  sought, 

And  furled  his  sails  till  Dawn  should  show  the  land ; 

While  in  glad  dreams  he  saw  the  ambient  waves 

Go  rippling  brightly  up  a  golden  strand. 

Hath  there  not  been  a  softer  breath  at  play 
In  the  long  woodland  aisles  than  often  sweeps 
At  this  rough  season  through  their  solemn  deeps — 
A  gentle  Ariel  sent  by  gentle  May, 

Who  knew  it  was  the  morn 
On  which  a  hope  was  born, 
To  greet  the  flower  ere  it  was  fully  blown, 
And  nurse  it  as  some  lily  of  her  own  ? 
And  wherefore,  save  to  grace  a  happy  day, 
Did  the  whole  West  at  blushing  sunset  glow 
With  clouds  that,  floating  up  in  bridal  snow, 
Passed  witli  the  festal  eve,  rose-crowned,  away  ? 


184  POEMS  OF  HENRY  TIMROD. 

And  now,  if  I  may  trust  my  straining  sight, 
The  heavens  appear  with  added  stars  to-night, 
And  deeper  depths,  and  more  celestial  height, 
Than  hath  been  reached  except  in  dreams  or  death. 
Hush,  sweetest  South  !     I  love  thy  delicate  breath ; 
But  hush !  methought  I  felt  an  angel's  kiss  ! 
Oh  !  all  that  lives  is  happy  in  my  bliss. 
That  lonely  fir,  which  always  seems 
As  though  it  locked  dark  secrets  in  itself, 

Hideth  a  gentle  elf, 

Whose  wand  shall  send  me  soon  a  frolic  troop 
Of  rainbow  visions,  and  of  moonlit  dreams. 
Can  joy  be  weary,  that  my  eyelids  droop  ? 
To-night  I  shall  not  seek  my  curtained  nest, 

But  even  here  find  rest. 

Who  whispered  then  ?     And  what  are  they  that  peep 
Betwixt  the  foliage  in  the  tree-top  there  ? 
Come,  Fairy  Shadows  !  for  the  morn  is  near, 
When  to  your  sombre  pine  ye  all  must  creep; 
Come,  ye  wild  pilots  of  the  darkness,  ere 
My  spirit  sinks  into  the  gulf  of  Sleep ; 
Even  now  it  circles  round  and  round  the  deep — 

Appear!  Appear! 


FLOWER-LIFE. 

I  think  that,  next  to  your  sweet  eyes, 

And  pleasant  books,  and  starry  skies, 

I  love  the  world  of  flowers ; 


FLOWER-LIFE.  185 

Less  for  their  beauty  of  a  day, 
Than  for  the  tender  things  they  say, 
And  for  a  creed  I've  held  alway, 
That  they  are  sentient  powers. 

It  may  be  matter  for  a  smile — 
And  I  laugh  secretly  the  while 

I  speak  the  fancy  out — 
But  that  they  love,  and  that  they  woo, 
And  that  they  often  marry  too, 
And  do  as  noisier  creatures  do, 

I've  not  the  faintest  doubt. 

And  so,  I  cannot  deem  it  right 

To  take  them  from  the  glad  sunlight, 

As  I  have  sometimes  dared ; 
Though  not  without  an  anxious  sigh 
Lest  this  should  break  some  gentle  tie, 
Some  covenant  of  friendship,  I 

Had  better  far  have  spared. 

And  when,  in  wild  or  thoughtless  hours, 
My  hand  hath  crushed  the  tiniest  flowers, 

I  ne'er  could  shut  from  sight 
The  corpses  of  the  tender  things, 
With  other  drear  imaginings, 
And  little  angel-flowers  with  wings 

Would  haunt  me  through  the  night. 

Oh  !  say  you,  friend,  the  creed  is  fraught 
With  sad,  and  even  with  painful  thought, 
Nor  could  you  bear  to  know 


186  POEMS  OF  HENRY  TIMROD. 

That  such  capacities  belong 
To  creatures  helpless  against  wrong, 
At  once  too  weak  to  fly  the  strong 
Or  front  the  feeblest  foe  ? 

So  be  it  always,  then,  with  you ; 
So  be  it— whether  false  or  true — 

I  press  my  faith  on  none ; 
If  other  fancies  please  you  more, 
The  flowers  shall  blossom  as  before, 
Dear  as  the  Sibyl-leaves  of  yore, 

But  senseless,  every  one. 

Yet,  though  I  give  you  no  reply, 
It  were  not  hard  to  justify 

My  creed  to  partial  ears ; 
But,  conscious  of  the  cruel  part, 
My  rhymes  would  flow  with  faltering  art, 
I  could  not  plead  against  your  heart. 

Nor  reason  with  your  tears. 


YOUTH  AND  MANHOOD. 

Another  year !  a  short  one,  if  it  flow 

Like  that  just  past, 
And  I  shall  stand — if  years  can  make  me  so — 

A  man  at  last. 

Yet,  while  the  hours  permit  me,  I  would  pause 
And  contemplate 


YOUTH  AND  MANHOOD.  187 

The  lot  whereto  unalterable  laws 
Have  bound  my  fate. 

Yet,  from  the  starry  regions  of  my  youth, 

The  empyreal  height 
Where  dreams  are  happiness,  and  feeling  truth, 

And  life  delight — 

From  that  ethereal  and  serene  abode 

My  soul  would  gaze 
Downward  upon  the  wide  and  winding  road, 

Where  manhood  plays ; 

Plays  with  the  baubles  and  the  gauds  of  earth — 

Wealth,  power,  and  fame — 
Nor  knows  that  in  the  twelvemonth  after  birth 

He  did  the  same. 

Where  the  descent  begins,  through  long  defiles 

I  see  them  wind ; 
And  some  are  looking  down  with  hopeful  smiles, 

And  some  are — blind. 

And  farther  on  a  gay  and  glorious  green 

Dazzles  the  sight, 
While  noble  forms  are  moving  o'er  the  scene, 

Like  things  of  light. 

Towers,  temples,  domes  of  perfect  symmetry 

Rise  broad  and  high, 
With  pinnacles  among  the  clouds ;  ah,  me ! 

None  touch  the  sky. 


188  POEMS  OF  HENRY  TIMROD. 

None  pierce  the  pure  and  lofty  atmosphere 

"Which  I  breathe  now, 
And  the  strong  spirits  that  inhabit  there, 

Live — God  sees  how. 

Sick  of  the  very  treasure  which  they  heap ; 

Their  tearless  eyes 
Sealed  ever  in  a  heaven-forgetting  sleep, 

Whose  dreams  are  lies ; 

And  so,  a  motley,  unattractive  throng, 

They  toil  and  plod, 
Dead  to  the  holy  ecstasies  of  song, 

To  love,  and  God. 

Dear  God!  if  that  I  may  not  keep  through  life 

My  trust,  my  truth, 
And  that  I  must,  in  yonder  endless  strife, 

Lose  faith  with  youth ; 

If  the  same  toil  which  indurates  the  hand 

Must  steel  the  heart, 
Till,  in  the  wonders  of  the  ideal  land, 

It  have  no  part ; 

Oh!  take  me  hence!  I  would  no  longer  stay 

Beneath  the  sky ; 
Give  me  to  chant  one  pure  and  deathless  lay, 

And  let  me  die ! 


A    SUMMER  SHOWER.  189 


A  SUMMER  SHOWER. 

Welcome,  rain  or  tempest 
From  yon  airy  powers, 
We  have  languished  for  them 

Many  sultry  hours, 

And  earth  is  sick  and  wan,  and  pines  with   all  her 
flowers. 

What  have  they  been  doing 

In  the  burning  June  ? 
Riding  with  the  genii  ? 
Visiting  the  moon  ? 
Or  sleeping  on  the  ice  amid  an  arctic  noon  ? 

Bring  they  with  them  jewels 

From  the  sunset  lands  ? 
What  are  these  they  scatter 

With  such  lavish  hands  ? 
There  are  no  brighter  gems  in  Raolconda's  sands. 

Pattering  on  the  gravel, 

Dropping  from  the  eaves, 
Glancing  in  the  grass,  and 

Tinkling  on  the  leaves, 
They  flash  the  liquid  pearls  as  flung  from  fairy  sieves. 

Meanwhile,  unreluctant, 
Earth  like  Danae  lies  ; 


190  POEMS  OF  HENRY  TIMROD. 

Listen !  is  it  fancy, 

That  beneath  us  sighs, 
As  that  warm  lap  receives  the  largesse  of  the  skies  ? 

Jove,  it  is,  descendeth 

In  those  crystal  rills; 
And  this  world- wide  tremor 

Is  a  pulse  that  thrills 
To  a  god's  life  infused  through  veins  of  velvet  hills. 

Wait,  thou  jealous  sunshine,     • 

Break  not  on  their  bliss ; 
Earth  will  blush  in  roses 

Many  a  day  for  this, 
And  bend  a  brighter  brow  beneath  thy  burning  kiss. 


BABY'S  AGE. 

She  came  with  April  blooms  and  showers ; 

We  count  her  little  life  by  flowers. 

As  buds  the  rose  upon  her  cheek, 

We  choose  a  flower  for  every  week. 

A  week  of  hyacinths,  we  say, 

And  one  of  heart's-ease,  ushered  May ; 

And  then  because  two  wishes  met 

Upon  the  rose  and  violet — 

I  liked  the  Beauty,  Kate,  the  Nun — 

The  violet  and  the  rose  count  one. 

A  week  the  apple  marked  with  white ; 

A  week  the  lily  scored  in  light ; 


HARK  TO   THE  SHOUTING   WIND.  191 

Eed  poppies  closed  May's  happy  moon, 
And  tulips  this  blue  week  in  June. 
Here  end  as  yet  the  flowery  links; 
To-day  begins  the  week  of  pinks ; 
But  soon — so  grave,  and  deep,  and  wise 
The  meaning  grows  in  Baby's  eyes, 
So  very  deep  for  Baby's  age — 
We  think  to  date  a  week  with  sage ! 


HARK   TO   THE   SHOUTING   WIND. 

Hark  to  the  shouting  Wind  ! 

Hark  to  the  flying  Rain  ! 
And  I  care  not  though  I  never  see 

A  bright  blue  sky  again. 

There  are  thoughts  in  my  breast  to-day 
That  are  not  for  human  speech  ; 

But  I  hear  them  in  the  driving  storm, 
And  the  roar  upon  the  beach. 

And  oh,  to  be  with  that  ship 

That  I  watch  through  the  blinding  brine! 

0  Wind !  for  thy  sweep  of  land  and  sea ! 
0  Sea !  for  a  voice  like  thine ! 

Shout  on,  thou  pitiless  Wind, 

To  the  frightened  and  flying  Rain  ! 

1  care  not  though  I  never  see 
A  calm  blue  sky  again. 


192  POEMS  OF  HENRY  TIMROD. 


THE   MESSENGER  ROSE. 

If  you  have  seen  a  richer  glow, 

Pray,  tell  me  where  your  roses  blow ! 

Look !  coral-leaved  !  and — mark  these  spots ! 

Red  staining  red  in  crimson  clots, 

Like  a  sweet  lip  bitten  through 

In  a  pique.     There,  where  that  hue 

Is  spilt  in  drops,  some  fairy  thing 

Hath  gashed  the  azure  of  its  wing, 

Or  thence,  perhaps,  this  very  morn, 

Plucked  the  splinters  of  a  thorn. 

Rose !  I  make  thy  bliss  my  care! 
In  my  lady's  dusky  hair 
Thou  shalt  burn  this  coming  night, 
With  even  a  richer  crimson  light. 
To  requite  me  thou  shalt  tell — 
What  I  might  not  say  as  well — 
How  I  love  her;  how,  in  brief, 
On  a  certain  crimson  leaf 
In  my  bosom,  is  a  debt 
Writ  in  deeper  crimson  yet. 
If  she  wonder  what  it  be — 
But  she'll  guess  it,  I  foresee — 
Tell  her  that  I  date  it,  pray, 
From  the  first  sweet  night  in  May. 


TOO  LONG,  0  SPIRIT  OF  STORM!  193 


TOO  LONG,  0  SPIEIT  OF  STORM! 

Too  long,  0  Spirit  of  Storm, 
Thy  lightning  sleeps  in  its  sheath ! 

I  am  sick  to  the  soul  of  yon  pallid  sky, 
And  the  moveless  sea  beneath. 

Come  down  in  thy  strength  on  the  deep ! 

Worse  dangers  there  are  in  life, 
When  the  waves  are  still,  and  the  skies  look  fair, 

Than  in  their  wildest  strife. 

A  friend  I  knew,  whose  days 

Were  as  calm  as  this  sky  overhead  ; 

But  one  blue  morn  that  was  fairest  of  all, 
The  heart  in  his  bosom  fell  dead. 

And  they  thought  him  alive  while  he  walked 
The  streets  that  he  walked  in  youth — 

Ah  !  little  they  guessed  the  seeming  man 
Was  a  soulless  corpse  in  sooth. 

Come  down  in  thy  strength,  0  Storm  ! 

And  lash  the  deep  till  it  raves  ! 
I  am  sick  to  the  soul  of  that  quiet  sea, 

Which  hides  ten  thousand  graves. 
9 


POEMS  OF  HENRY  TIMROD. 


THE  LILY  CONFIDANTE. 

Lily !  lady  of  the  garden ! 
i     Let  me  press  my  lip  to  thine  ! 
Love  must  tell  its  story,  Lily  ! 
Listen  thou  to  mine. 

Two  I  choose  to  know  the  secret — 
Thee,  and  yonder  wordless  flute  ; 

Dragons  watch  me,  tender  Lily, 
And  thou  must  be  mute. 

There's  a  maiden,  and  her  name  is  . . . . 

Hist!  was  that  a  rose-leaf  fell  ? 
See,  the  rose  is  listening,  Lily, 

And  the  rose  may  tell. 

Lily-browed  and  lily-hearted, 

She  is  very  dear  to  me ; 
Lovely?  yes,  if  being  lovely 

Is — resembling  thee. 

Six  to  half  a  score  of  summers 

Make  the  sweetest  of  the  "  teens  v — 

Not  too  young  to  guess,  dear  Lily, 
What  a  lover  means. 

Laughing  girl,  and  thoughtful  woman, 
I  am  puzzled  how  to  woo— 

Shall  I  praise,  or  pique  her,  Lily  ? 
Tell  me  what  to  do. 


-THE  LILY  CONFIDANTE.  195 

"  Silly  lover,  if  thy  Lily 

Like  her  sister  lilies  be, 
Thou  must  woo,  if  thou  wouldst  wear  her, 

With  a  simple  plea. 

"  Love's  the  lover's  only  magic. 

Truth  the  very  subtlest  art ; 
Love  that  feigns,  and  lips  that  flatter, 

Win  no  modest  heart. 

"  Like  the  dewdrop  in  my  bosom, 

Be  thy  guileless  language,  youth  ; 
Falsehood  buyeth  falsehood  only, 

Truth  must  purchase  truth. 

"  As  thou  talkest  at  the  fireside, 

With  the  little  children  by — 
As  thou  prayest  in  the  darkness, 

When  thy  G-od  is  nigh — 

"  With  a  speech  as  chaste  and  gentle, 

And  such  meanings  as  become 
Ktir  of  child,  or  ear  of  angel, 

Speak,  or  be  thou  dumb. 

"  Woo  her  thus,  and  she  shall  give  thee 

Of  her  heart  the  sinless  whole, 
All  the  girl  within  her  bosom, 

And  her  woman's  soul." 


190  POEMS  OF  HENRY  TIMROD. 


ON  PRESSING  SOME  FLOWERS. 

So,  they  are  dead !     Love  !  when  they  passed 
From  thee  to  me,  our  fingers  met ; 

0  withered  darlings  of  the  May! 
I  feel  those  fairy  fingers  yet. 

And  for  the  bliss  ye  brought  me  then, 
Your  faded  forms  are  precious  things ; 

No  flowers  so  fair,  no  buds  so  sweet 

Shall  bloom  through  all  my  future  springs. 

And  so,  pale  ones !  with  hands  as  soft 

As  if  I  closed  a  baby's  eyes, 
I'll  lay  you  in  some  favorite  book 

Made  sacred  by  a  poet's  sighs. 

Your  lips  shall  press  the  sweetest  song, 
The  sweetest,  saddest  song  I  know, 

As  ye  had  perished,  in  your  pride, 
Of  some  lone  bard's  melodious  woe. 

Oh,  Love !  hath  love  no  holier  shrine  ! 

Oh,  heart !  could  love  but  lend  the  power, 
I'd  lay  thy  crimson  pages  bare, 

And  every  leaf  should  fold  its  flower. 


SONNET.  197 


A  COMMON  THOUGHT. 

Somewhere  on  this  earthly  planet 

In  the  dust  of  flowers  to  be, 
In  the  dewdrop,  in  the  sunshine, 

Sleeps  a  solemn  day  for  me. 

At  this  wakeful  hour  of  midnight 

I  behold  it  dawn  in  mist, 
And  I  hear  a  sound  of  sobbing 

Through  the  darkness — hist !  oh,  hist ! 

In  a  dim  and  musky  chamber, 

I  am  breathing  life  away ; 
Some  one  draws  a  curtain  softly, 

And  I  watch  the  broadening  day. 

As  it  purples  in  the  zenith, 
As  it  brightens  on  the  lawn, 

There's  a  hush  of  death  about  me, 
And  a  whisper,  "  He  is  gone ! " 


SONNET. 

Poet !  if  on  a  lasting  fame  be  bent 

Thy  unperturbing  hopes,  thou  wilt  not  roam 

Too  far  from  thine  own  happy  heart  and  home ; 

Cling  to  the  lowly  earth,  and  be  content! 

So  shall  thy  name  be  dear  to  many  a  heart; 

So  shall  the  noblest  truths  by  thee  be  taught ; 


198       POEMS  OF  HKNRT  TIMROD. 

The  flower  and  fruit  of  wholesome  human  thought 
Bless  the  sweet  labors  of  thy  gentle  art. 
The  brightest  stars  are  nearest  to  the  earth, 
And  we  may  track  the  mighty  sun  above, 
Even  by  the  shadow  of  a  slender  flower. 
Always,  0  bard,  humility  is  power ! 
And  thou  may'st  draw  from  matters  of  the  hearth 
Truths  wide  as  nations,  and  as  deep  as  love. 


SONNET. 

Most  men  know  love  but  as  a  part  of  life ; 
They  hide  it  in  some  corner  of  the  breast, 
Even  from  themselves  ;  and  only  when  they  rest 
In  the  brief  pauses  of  that  daily  strife, 
Wherewith  the  world  might  else  be  not  so  rife, 
They  draw  it  forth  (as  one  draws  forth  a  toy 
To  soothe  some  ardent,  kiss-exacting  boy) 
And  hold  it  up  to  sister,  child,  or  wife. 
Ah  me !  why  may  not  love  and  life  be  one  ? 
Why  walk  we  thus  alone,  when  by  our  side, 
Love,  like  a  visible  God,  might  be  our  guide  ? 
How  would  the  marts  grow  noble  !  and  the  street, 
Worn  like  a  dungeon-floor  by  weary  feet, 
Seem  then  a  golden  court-way  of  the  Sun  ! 


SONNET.  199 


SONNET. 

Life  ever  seems  as  from  its  present  site 

It  aimed  to  lure  us.     Mountains  of  the  past 

It  melts,  with  all  their  crags  and  caverns  vast, 

Into  a  purple  cloud  !     Across  the  night 

"Which  hides  what  is  to  be,  it  shoots  a  light 

All  rosy  with  the  yet  unrisen  dawn. 

Not  the  near  daisies,  but  yon  distant  height 

Attracts  us,  lying  on  this  emerald  lawn. 

And  always,  be  the  landscape  what  it  may — 

Blue,  misty  hill  or  sweep  of  glimmering  plain — 

It  is  the  eye's  endeavor  still  to  gain 

The  fine,  faint  limit  of  the  bounding  day. 

God,  haply,  in  this  mystic  mode,  would  fain 

Hint  of  a  happier  home,  far,  far  away ! 


SONNET. 

They  dub  thee  idler,  smiling  sneeringly, 
And  why  ?  because,  forsooth,  so  many  moons, 
Here  dwelling  voiceless  by  the  voiceful  sea, 
Thou  hast  not  set  thy  thoughts  to  paltry  tunes 
In  song  or  sonnet.     Them  these  golden  noons 
Oppress  not  with  their  beauty ;  they  could  prate, 
Even  while  a  prophet  read  the  solemn  runes 
On  which  is  hanging  some  imperial  fate. 
How  know  they,  these  good  gossips,  what  to  thee 
The  ocean  and  its  wanderers  may  have  brought? 


200  POEMS  OF  HENRY  TIMROD. 

How  know  they,  in  their  busy  vacancy, 
With  what  far  aim  thy  spirit  may  be  fraught  ? 
Or  that  thou  dost  not  bow  thee  silently 
Before  some  great  unutterable  thought  ? 


SONNET. 

Some  truths  there  be  are  better  left  unsaid ; 
Much  is  there  that  we  may  not  speak  unblamed. 
On  words,  as  wings,  how  many  joys  have  fled! 
The  jealous  fairies  love  not  to  be  named. 
There  is  an  old-world  tale  of  one  whose  bed 
A  genius  graced,  to  all,  save  him,  unknown ; 
One  day  the  secret  passed  his  lips,  and  sped 
As  secrets  speed — thenceforth  he  slept  alone. 
Too  much,  oh  !  far  too  much  is  told  in  books ; 
Too  broad  a  daylight  wraps  us  all  and  each. 
Ah!  it  is  well  that,  deeper  than  our  looks, 
Some  secrets  lie  beyond  conjecture's  reach. 
Ah  !  it  is  well  that  in  the  soul  are  nooks 
That  will  not  open  to  the  keys  of  speech. 


SONNET. 

I  scarcely  grieve,  0  Nature !  at  the  lot 

That  pent  my  life  within  a  city's  bounds, 

And  shut  me  from  thy  sweetest  sights  and  sounds. 

Perhaps  I  had  not  learned,  if  some  lone  cot 


SONNET.  201 

Had  nursed  a  dreamy  childhood,  what  the  mart 

Taught  me  amid  its  turmoil ;  so  my  youth 

Had  missed  full  many  a  stern  but  wholesome  truth. 

Here,  too,  0  Nature !  in  this  haunt  of  Art, 

Thy  power  is  on  me,  and  I  own  thy  thrall. 

There  is  no  unimpressive  spot  on  earth  ! 

The  beauty  of  the  stars  is  over  all, 

And  Day  and  Darkness  visit  every  hearth. 

Clouds  do  not  scorn  us:  yonder  factory's  smoke 

Looked  like  a  golden  mist  when  morning  broke. 


SONNET. 

Grief  dies  like  joy  ;  the  tears  upon  my  cheek 
Will  disappear  like  dew.     Dear  God  !  I  know 
Thy  kindly  Providence  hath  made  it  so, 
And  thank  thee  for  the  law.     I  am  too  weak 
To  make  a  friend  of  Sorrow,  or  to  wear, 
With  that  dark  angel  ever  by  my  side 
(Though  to  thy  heaven  there  be  no  better  guide), 
A  front  of  manly  calm.    Yet,  for  I  hear 
How  woe  hath  cleansed,  how  grief  can  deify, 
So  weak  a  thing  it  seems  that  grief  should  die, 
And  love  and  friendship  with  it,  I  could  pray, 
That  if  it  might  not  gloom  upon  my  brow. 
Nor  weigh  upon  my  arm  as  it  doth  now, 
No  grief  of  mine  should  ever  pass  away. 

9* 


202  POEMS  OF  HENRY  TIMROD. 

SONNET. 

At  last,  beloved  Nature  !  I  have  met 
Thee  face  to  face  upon  thy  breezy  hills, 
And  boldly,  where  thy  inmost  bowers  are  set, 
Gazed  on  thee  naked  in  thy  mountain  rills. 
"When  first  I  felt  thy  breath  upon  my  brow, 
Tears  of  strange  ecstasy  gushed  out  like  rain, 
And  with  a  longing,  passionate  as  vain, 
I  strove  to  clasp  thee.     But,  I  know  not  how, 
Always  before  me  didst  thou  seem  to  glide  ; 
And  often  from  one  sunny  mountain-side, 
Upon  the  next  bright  peak  I  saw  thee  kneel, 
And  heard  thy  voice  upon  the  billowy  blast ; 
But,  climbing,  only  reached  that  shrine  to  feel 
The  shadow  of  a  Presence  which  had  passed. 


SONNET.       tfCT 

I  know  not  why,  but  all  this  weary  day, 
Suggested  by  no  definite  grief  or  pain, 
Sad  fancies  have  been  flitting  through  my  brain  ; 
Now  it  has  been  a  vessel  losing  way, 
Bounding  a  stormy  headland  ;  now  a  gray 
Dull  waste  of  clouds  above  a  wintry  main  ; 
And  then,  a  banner,  drooping  in  the  rain, 
And  meadows  beaten  into  bloody  clay. 
Strolling  at  random  with  this  shadowy  woe 
At  heart,  I  chanced  to  wander  hither !     Lo  ! 


SONNET.  203 

A  league  of  desolate  marsh-land,  with  its  lush, 
Hot  grasses  in  a  noisome,  tide-left  bed, 
And  faint,  warm  airs,  that  rustle  in  the  hush, 
Like  whispers  round  the  hody  of  the  dead ! 


SONNET. 

(WRITTEN  ox  A  VERY  SMALL  SHEET  OF  NOTE- PAPER.) 
Were  I  the  poet-laureate  of  the  fairies, 
Who  in  a  rose-leaf  finds  too  broad  a  page ; 
Or  could  I,  like  your  beautiful  canaries, 
Sing  with  free  heart  and  happy,  in  a  cage; 
Perhaps  I  might  within  this  little  space 
(As  in  some  Eastern  tale,  by  magic  power, 
A  giant  is  imprisoned  in  a  flower) 
Have  told  you  something  with  a  poet's  grace. 
But  I  need  wider  limits,  ampler  scope, 
A  world  of  freedom  for  a  world  of  passion, 
And  even  then,  the  glory  of  my  hope 
Would  not  be  uttered  in  its  stateliest  fashion ; 
Yet,  lady,  when  fit  language  shall  have  told  it, 
You'll  find  one  little  heart  enough  to  hold  it ! 


204  POEMS  OF  HENRY  TIMROD.      • 

1866. 

ADDKESSED  TO  THE  OLD  YEAR. 

Art  thou  not  glad  to  close 

Thy  wearied  eyes,  0  saddest  child  of  Time, 
Eyes  which  have  looked  on  every  mortal  crime, 

And  swept  the  piteous  round  of  mortal  woes  ? 

In  dark  Plutonian  caves, 

Beneath  the  lowest  deep,  go,  hide  thy  head ; 

Or  earth  thee  where  the  blood  that  thou  hast  shed 
May  trickle  on  thee  from  thy  countless  graves  ! 

Take  with  thee  all  thy  gloom 
And  guilt,  and  all  our  griefs,  save  what  the  breast, 
Without  a  wrong  to  some  dear  shadowy  guest, 

May  not  surrender  even  to  the  tomb. 

No  tear  shall  weep  thy  fall, 

When,  as  the  midnight  bell  doth  toll  thy  fate, 

Another  lifts  the  sceptre  of  thy  state, 
And  sits  a  monarch  in  thine  ancient  hall. 

Him  all  the  hours  attend, 

With  a  new  hope  like  morning  in  their  eyes ; 

Him  the  fair  earth  and  him  these  radiant  skies 
Hail  as  their  sovereign,  welcome  as  their  friend. 

Him,  too,  the  nations  wait ; 
"0  lead  us  from  the  shadow  of  the  Past," 


I860— ADDRESSED   TO   THE    OLD    YEAR.       205 

In  a  long  wail  like  this  December  blast, 
They  cry,  and,  crying,  grow  less  desolate. 

How  he  will  shape  his  sway 

They  ask  not — for  old  doubts  and  fears  will  cling — 
And  yet  they  trust  that,  somehow,  he  will  bring 

A  sweeter  sunshine  than  thy  mildest  day. 

Beneath  his  gentle  hand 

They  hope  to  see  no  meadow,  vale,  or  hill 
Stained  with  a  deeper  red  than  roses  spill, 

When  some  too  boisterous  zephyr  sweeps  the  land. 

A  time  of  peaceful  prayer, 

Of  law,  love,  labor,  honest  loss  and  gain — 
These  are  the  visions  of  the  coming  reign 

Now  floating  to  them  on  this  wintry  air. 


ADDITIONAL  POEMS. 


ODE. 

SUNG  ON  THE  OCCASION  OF  DECORATING  THE  GRAVES 
OF  THE  CONFEDERATE  DEAD,  AT  MAGNOLIA  CEME 
TERY,  CHARLESTON,  S.  C.,  1867. 


Sleep  sweetly  in  your  humble  graves, 
Sleep,  martyrs  of  a  fallen  cause  ; 

Though  yet  no  marble  column  craves 
The  pilgrim  here  to  pause. 


In  seeds  of  laurel  in  the  earth 

The  blossom  of  your  fame  is  blown, 

And  somewhere,  waiting  for  its  birth, 
The  shaft  is  in  the  stone! 

in. 

Meanwhile,  behalf  the  tardy  years 

Which  keep  in  trust  your  storied  tombs, 

Behold!  your  sisters  bring  their  tears, 
And  these  memorial  blooms. 

IV. 
Small  tributes  !  but  your  shades  will  smile 

More  proudly  on  these  wreaths  to-day, 
Than  when  some  cannon-moulded  pile 

Shall  overlook  this  bav. 


210  POEMS  OF  HENRY  TIMROD. 

V. 

Stoop,  angels,  hither  from  the  skies! 

There  is  no  holier  spot  of  ground 
Than  where  defeated  valor  lies, 

By  mourning  beauty  crowned! 


HYMN. 

SUNG   AT  A   SACRED   CONCERT   AT   COLUMBIA,   S.    0. 
I. 

Faint  falls  the  gen  tie  voice  of  prayer 
In  the  wild  sounds  that  fill  the  air, 
Yet,  Lord,  we  know  that  voice  is  heard, 
Not  less  than  if  Thy  throne  it  stirred. 

II. 

Thine  ear,  thou  tender  One,«is  caught, 
If  we  but  bend  the  knee  in  thought ; 
No  choral  song  that  shakes  the  sky 
Floats  farther  than  the  Christian's  sigh. 

in. 

Not  all  the  darkness  of  the  land 
Can  hide  the  lifted  eye  and  hand; 
Nor  need  the  clanging  conflict  cease, 
To  make  Thee  hear  our  cries  for  peace. 


THE  STREAM  IS  FL  0  WING  FROM  THE  WEST.     2 1 1 


THE  STREAM  IS  FLOWING  FROM  THE  WEST. 

The  stream  is  flowing  from  the  west ; 

As  if  it  poured  from  yonder  skies, 
It  wears  upon  its  rippling  breast 

The  sunset's  golden  dyes ; 
And  bearing  onward  to  the  sea, 
'Twill  clasp  the  isle  that  holdeth  thee. 

I  dip  my  hand  within  the  wave  ; 

Ah  !  how  impressionless  and  cold  ! 
I  touch  it  with  my  lip,  and  lave 

My  forehead  in  the  gold. 
It  is  a  trivial  thought,  but  sweet, 
Perhaps  the  wave  will  kiss  thy  feet. 

Alas  !  I  leave  no  trace  behind— 
As  little  on  the  senseless  stream 

As  on  thy  heart,  or  on  thy  mind ; 
Which  was  the  simpler  dream, 

To  win  that  warm,  wild  love  of  thine, 

Or  make  the  water  whisper  mine?- 

Dear  stream  !  some  moons  must  wax  and  wane 

Ere  I  again  shall  cross  thy  tide, 
And  then,  perhaps,  a  viewless  chain 

Will  drag  me  to  her  side, 
To  love  with  all  my  spirit's  scope, 
To  wish,  do  everything  but— hope. 


2 1 2  POEMS  OF  HENRY  TIMROD. 


STANZAS. 

A  MOTHER  GAZES  UPON  HER  DAUGHTER,  ARRAYED 
FOR  AN  APPROACHING  BRIDAL.  WRITTEN  IN  IL 
LUSTRATION  OF  A  TABLEAU  VIVANT. 

Is  she  not  lovely  !  Oh !  when,  long  ago, 
My  own  dead  mother  gazed  upon  my  face, 

As  I  stood  blushing  near  in  bridal  snow, 
I  had  not  half  her  beauty  and  her  grace. 

Yet  that  fond  mother  praised,  the  world  caressed, 
And  one  adored  me — how  shall  he  who  soon 

Shall  wear  my  gentle  flower  upon  his  breast, 
Prize  to  its  utmost  worth  the  priceless  boon  ? 

Shall  he  not  gird  her,  guard  her,  make  her  rich, 
(Not  as  the  world  is  rich,  in  outward  show,) 

With  all  the  love  and  watchful  kindness  which 
A  wise  and  tender  manhood  may  bestow  ? 

Oh !  I  shall  part  from  her  with  many  tears, 
My  earthly  treasure,  pure  and  un defiled! 

And  not  without  a  weight  of  anxious  fears 
For  the  new  future  of  my  darling  child. 

And  yet— for  well  I  know  that  virgin  heart- 
No  wifely  duty  will  she  leave  undone ; 

Nor  will  her  love  neglect  that  woman's  art 
Which  courts  and  keeps  a  love  already  won. 


RETIREMENT.  2 1 8 

In  no  light  girlish  levity  she  goes 
Unto  the  altar  where  they  wait  her  now, 

But  with  a  thoughtful,  prayerful  heart  that  knows 
The  solemn  purport  of  a  marriage  vow. 

And  she  will  keep,  with  all  her  soul's  deep  truth, 
The  lightest  pledge  which  binds  her  love  and  life ; 

And  she  will  be — no  less  in  age  than  youth 
My  noble  child  will  be — a  noble  wife. 

And  he,  her  lover !  husband  !  what  of  him  ? 

Yes,  he  will  shield,  I  think,  my  bud  from  blight ! 
Yet  griefs  will  come — enough  !  my  eyes  are  dim 

With  tears  I  must  not  shed — at  least,  to-night. 

Bless  thee,  my  daughter! — Oh  !  she  is  so  fair  ! — 
Heaven  bend  above  thee  with  its  starriest  skies! 

And  make  thee  truly  all  thou  dost  appear 
Unto  a  lover's  and  thy  mother's  eyes ! 


EETIREMENT. 

My  gentle  friend  !  I  hold  no  creed  so  false 

As  that  which  dares  to  teach  that  we  are  born 

For  battle  only,  and  that  in  this  life 

The  soul,  if  it  would  burn  with  starlike  power, 

Must  needs  forsooth  be  kindled  by  the  sparks 

Struck  from  the  shock  of  clashing  human  hearts. 


214  POEMS  OF  HENRY  TIMROD. 

There  is  a  wisdom  that  grows  up  in  strife, 

And  one — I  like  it  best — that  sits  at  home 

And  learns  its  lessons  of  a  thoughtful  ease. 

So  come !  a  lonely  house  awaits  thee ! — there 

Nor  praise,  nor  blame  shall  reach  us,  save  what  love 

Of  knowledge  for  itself  shall  wake  at  times 

In  oar  own  bosoms ;  come !  and  we  will  build 

A  wall  of  quiet  thought,  and  gentle  books, 

Betwixt  us  and  the  hard  and  bitter  world. 

Sometimes — for  we  need  not  be  anchorites — 

A  distant  friend  shall  cheer  us  through  the  Post, 

Or  some  Gazette — of  course  no  partisan — 

Shall  bring  us  pleasant  news  of  pleasant  things; 

Then,  twisted  into  graceful  allumettes, 

Each  ancient  joke  shall  blaze  with  genuine  flame 

To  light  our  pipes  and  candles  ;  but  to  wars, 

Whether  of  words  or  weapons,  we  shall  be 

Deaf— so  we  twain  shall  pass  away  the  time 

Ev'u  as  a  pair  of  happy  lovers,  who, 

Alone,  within  some  quiet  garden-nook, 

With  a  clear  night  of  stars  above  their  heads, 

Just  hear,  betwixt  their  kisses  and  their  talk, 

The  tumult  of  a  tempest  rolling  through 

A  chain  of  neighboring  mountains ;  they  awhile 

Pause  to  admire  a  flash  that  only  shows 

The  smile  upon  their  faces,  but,  full  soon, 

Turn  with  a  quick,  glad  impulse,  and  perhaps 

A  conscious  wile  that  brings  them  closer  yet, 

To  dally  with  their  own  fond  hearts,  and  play 

With  the  sweet  flowers  that  blossom  at  their  feet. 


VOX  ET  PRETEREA  NIHIL.  215 


VOX  ET   PRETEREA   NIHIL. 

I've  been  haunted  all  night,  I've  been  haunted  all  day, 

By  the  ghost  of  a  song,  by  the  shade  of  a  lay, 

That  with  meaningless  words  and  profusion  of  rhyme, 

To  a  dreamy  and  musical  rhythm  keeps  time. 

A  simple,  but  still  a  most  magical  strain, 

Its  dim  monotones  have  bewildered  my  brain 

With  a  specious  and  cunning  appearance  of  thought, 

I  seem  to  be  catching  but  never  have  caught. 

I  know  it  embodies  some  very  sweet  things, 
And  can  almost  divine  the  low  burden  it  sings; 
But  again,  and  again,  and  still  ever  again, 
It  has  died  on  my  ear  at  the  touch  of  my  pen. 
And  so  it  keeps  courting  and  shunning  my  quest, 
As  a  bird  that  has  just  been  aroused  from  her  nest, 
Too  fond  to  depart,  and  too  frightened  to  stay, 
Now  circles  about  you,  now  nutters  away. 

Oh !  give  me  fit  words  for  that  exquisite  song, 

And  thou  could'st  not,  proud  beauty!  be  obdurate  long; 

It  would  come  like  the  voice  of  a  saint  from  above, 

And  win  thee  to  kindness,  and  melt  thee  to  love. 

Not  gilded  with  fancy,  nor  frigid  with  art, 

But  simple  as  feeling,  and  warm  as  the  heart, 

It  would  murmur  my  name  with  so  charming  a  tone, 

As  would  almost  persuade  thee  to  wish  it  thine  own. 


2 1 6  POEMS  OF  HEXR  Y  TIMROD. 


HYMK 

SUNG   AT   AN   ANNIVERSARY   OF  THE   ASYLUM    OF 
ORPHANS    AT    CHARLESTON. 

We  scarce,  0  God !  could  lisp  thy  name. 

When  those  who  loved  us  passed  away, 
And  left  us  but  thy  love  to  claim, 

With  but  an  infant's  strength  to  pray. 

Thou  gav'st  that  Refuge  and  that  Shrine, 
At  which  we  learn  to  know  thy  ways ; 

Father !  the  fatherless  are  thine ! 

Thou  wilt  not  spurn  the  orphan's  praise. 

Yet  hear  a  single  cry  of  pain ! 

Lord!  whilst  we  dream  in  quiet  beds, 
The  summer  sun  and  winter  rain 

Beat  still  on  many  homeless  heads. 

And  o'er  this  weary  earth,  we  know, 

Young  outcasts  roam  the  waste  and  wave; 

And  little  hands  are  clasped  in  woe 
Above  some  tender  mother's  grave. 

Ye  winds !  keep  every  storm  aloof, 
And  kiss  away  the  tears  they  weep ! 

Ye  skies,  that  make  their  only  roof, 
Look  gently  on  their  houseless  sleep! 


TO  A  CAPTIVE  OWL.  217 

And  thou,  0  Friend  and  Father!  find 
A  home  to  shield  their  helpless  youth ! 

Dear  hearts  to  love — sweet  ties  to  bind — 
And  guide  and  guard  them  in  the  truth  ! 


TO  A  CAPTIVE  OWL. 

I  should  be  dumb  before  thee,  feathered  sage! 

And  gaze  upon  thy  phiz  with  solemn  awe, 
Bat  for  a  most  audacious  wish  to  gauge 

The  hoarded  wisdom  of  thy  learned  craw. 

Art  thou,  grave  bird !  so  wondrous  wise  indeed  ? 

Speak  freely,  without  fear  of  jest  or  jibe — 
What  is  thy  moral  and  religious  creed  ? 

And  what  the  metaphysics  of  thy  tribe  ? 

A  Poet,  curious  in  birds  and  brutes, 

I  do  not  question  thee  in  idle  play ; 
What  is  thy  station  ?     What  are  thy  pursuits  ? 

Doubtless  thou  hast  thy  pleasures — what  are  they  ? 

Or  is't  thy  wont  to  muse  and  mouse  at  once, 
Entice  thy  prey  with  airs  of  meditation, 

And  with  the  unvarying  habits  of  a  dunce, 
To  dine  in  solemn  depths  of  contemplation  ? 
10 


218  POEMS  OF  HENRY  TIMROD. 

There  may  be  much. — the  world  at  least  says  so — 
Behind  that  ponderous  brow  and  thoughtful  gaze; 

Yet  sucli  a  great  philosopher  should  know, 
It  is  by  no  means  wise  to  think  always. 

And,  Bird,  despite  thy  meditative  air, 
I  hold  thy  stock  of  wit  but  paltry  pelf — 

Thou  show'st  that  same  grave  aspect  everywhere, 
And  wouldst  look  thoughtful,  stuffed,  upon  a  shelf. 

I  grieve  to  be  so  plain,  renowiie'd  Bird — 

Thy  fame's  a  flam,  and  thou  an  empty  fowl ; 

And  what  is  more,  upon  a  Poet's  word 
I'd  say  as  much,  wert  thou  Minerva's  owl. 

4 

So  doff  th'  imposture  of  those  heavy  brows ; 

They  do  not  serve  to  hide  thy  instincts  base — 
And  if  thou  must  be  sometimes  munching  mouse, 

Munch  it.  0  Owl !  with  less  profound  a  face. 


LOVE'S  LOGIC. 

And  if  I  ask  thee  for  a  kiss, 

I  ask  no  more  than  this  sweet  breeze, 
With  far  less  title  to  the  bliss, 

Steals  every  minute  at  his  ease. 


LOVE'S  LOGIC.  219 

And  yet  how  placid  is  .thy  brow ! 

It  seems  to  woo  the  bold  caress, 
While  now  he  takes  his  kiss,  and  now 

All  sorts  of  freedoms  with  thy  dress. 

Or  if  I  dare  thy  hand  to  touch, 

Hath  nothing  pressed  its  palm  before  ? 
A  flower,  I'm  sure,  hath  done  as  much, 

And  ah  !  some  senseless  diamond  more. 
It  strikes  me,  love,  the  very  rings, 

Now  sparkling  on  that  hand  of  thine, 
Could  tell  some  truly  startling  things, 

If  they  had  tongues  or  touch  like  mine. 

Indeed,  indeed,  I  do  not  know 

Of  all  that  thou  hast  power  to  grant, 
A  boon  for  which  I  could  not  show 

Some  pretty  precedent  extant. 
Suppose,  for  instance,  I  should  clasp 

Thus, — so, — and  thus! — thy  slender  waist— 
I  would  not  hold  within  my  grasp 

More  than  this  loosened  zone  embraced. 

Oh !  put  the  anger  from  thine  eyes, 

Or  shut  them  if  they  still  must  frown ; 
Those  lids,  despite  yon  garish  skies, 

Can  bring  a  timely  darkness  down. 
Then,  if  in  that  convenient  night, 

My  lips  should  press  thy  dewy  mouth, 
The  touch  shall  be  so  soft,  so  light, 

Thou'lt  fancy  me — this  gentle  South. 


220  POEMS  OF  HENE7  TIMEOD. 


SECOND   LOVE. 

Could  I  reveal  the  secret  joy 

Thy  presence  always  with  it  brings, 
The  memories  so  strangely  waked 
.  Of  long  forgotten  things, 

The  love,  the  hope,  the  fear,  the  grief, 
Which  with  that  voice  come  back  to  me,- 

Thou  wonldst  forgive  the  impassioned  gaze 
So  often  turned  on  thee. 

It  was,  indeed,  that  early  love, 

But  foretaste  of  this  second  one, — 

The  soft  light  of  the  morning  star 
Before  the  morning  sun. 

The  same  dark  beauty  in  her  eyes, 

The  same  blonde  hair  and  placid  brow, 

The  same  deep-meaning,  quiet  smile 
Thou  bendest  on  me  now, 

She  might  have  been,  she  was  no  more 
Than  what  a  prescient  hope  could  make,- 

A  dear  presentiment  of  thee 
I  loved  but  for  thy  sake. 


LINES  TO  R.  L.  221 


HYMN. 

SUNG   AT  THE   CONSECRATION   OF   MAGNOLIA   CEME 
TERY,    CHARLESTON,   S.  C. 

Whose  was  the  hand  that  painted  thee,  0  Death! 

In  the  false  aspect  of  a  ruthless  foe, 
Despair  and  sorrow  waiting  on  thy  breath — 

0  gentle  Power!  who  could  have  wronged  thee  so? 

Thou  rather  should'st  be  crowned  with  fadeless  flowers, 
Of  lusting  fragrance  and  celestial  hue ; 

Or  be  thy  couch  amid  funereal  bowers, 

But  let  the  stars  and  sunlight  sparkle  through. 

So,  with  these  thoughts  before  us,  we  have  fixed 
And  beautified,  0  Death !  thy  mansion  here, 

Where  gloom  and  gladness — grave  and  garden — mixed, 
Make  it  a  place  to  love,  and  not  to  fear. 

Heaven !  shed  thy  most  propitious  dews  around ! 

Ye  holy  stars !  look  down  with  tender  eyes, 
And  gild  and  guard,  and  consecrate  the  ground 

Where  we  may  rest,  and  whence  we  pray  to  rise. 


LINES  TO  R.  L. 

That  which  we  are  and  shall  be  is  made  up 
Of  what  we  have  been.     On  the  autumn  leaf 
The  crimson  stains  bear  witness  of  its  spring; 


222  POEMS  OF  HENRY  TIMROD. 

And,  on  its  perfect  nodes,  the  ocean  shell 
Notches  the  slow,  strange  changes  of  its  growth.. 
Ourselves  are  our  own  records ;  if  we  looked 
Rightly  into  that  blotted  crimson  page 
Within  our  bosoms,  then  there  were  no  need 
To  chronicle  our  stories  ;  for  the  heart 
Hath,  like  the  earth,  its  strata,  -and  contains 
Its  past  within  its  present.     Well  for  us, 
And  our  most  cherished  secrets,  that  within 
The  round  of  being  few  there  are  who  read 
Beneath  the  surface.     Else  our  very  forms, 
The  merest  gesture  of  our  hands,  might  tell 
Much  we  would  hide  forever.     Know  you  not 
Those  eyes,  in  whose  dark  heaven  I  have  gazed 
More  curiously  than  on  my  favorite  stars, 
Are  deeper  for  such  griefs  as  they  have  seen, 
And  brighter  for  the  fancies  they  have  shrined, 
And  sweeter  for  the  loves  which  they  have  talked? 
Oh  !  that  I  had  the  power  to  read  their  smiles, 
Or  sound  the  depth  of  all  their  glorious  gloom. 
So  should  I  learn  your  history  from  its  birth, 
Through  all  its  glad  and  grave  experiences, 
Better  than  if — (your  journal  in  my  hand, 
Written  as  only  women  write,  with  all 
A  woman's  shades  and  shapes  of  feeling,  traced 
As  with  the  fine  touch  of  a  needle's  point)— 
I  followed  you  from  that  bright  hour  when  first 
I  saw  you  in  the  garden  'mid  the  flowers, 
To  that  wherein  a  letter  from  your  hand 
Made  me  all  rich  with  the  dear  name  of  friend. 


MADELINE.  223 


MADELINE. 

0  lady !  if,  until  thi§  hour, 

I've  gazed  in  those,  bewildering  eyes, 
Yet  never  owned  their  touching  power, 

But  when  thou  could'st  not  hear  my  sighs; 
It  has  not  been  that  love  has  slept 

One  single  moment  in  my  soul, 
Or  that  on  lip  or  look  I  kept 

A  stern  and  stoical  control ; 
But  that  I  saw,  but  that  I  felt, 

In  every  tone  and  glance  of  thine, 
Whate'er  "they  spoke,  where'er  they  dwelt, 

How  small,  how  poor  a  part  was  mine ; 
And  that  I  deeply,  dearly  knew, 

That  hidden,  hopeless  love  confessed, 
The  fatal  words  would  lose  me,  too, 

Even  the  weak  friendship  I  possessed. 

And  so,  I  masked  my  secret  well; 

The  very  love  within  my  breast 
Became  the  strange,  but  potent  spell 

By  which  I  forced  it  into  rest. 
Yet  there  were  times — I  scarce  know  how 

These  eager  lips  refrained  to  speak, — 
Some  kindly  smile  would  light  thy  brow, 

And  I  grew  passionate  and  weak ; 
The  secret  sparkled  at  my  eyes, 
And  love  but  half  repressed  its  sighs, — 
Then  had  I  gazed  an  instant  more, 


224  POEMS  OF  HENRY  TIMROD. 

Or  dwelt  one  moment  on  that  brow, 
I  might  have  changed  the  smile  it  wore, 

To  what  perhaps  it  weareth  now, 
And  spite  of  all  I  feared  to  meet, 
Confessed  that  passion  at  thy  feet. 
To  save  my  heart,  to  spare  thine  own, 

There  was  one  remedy  alone. 
I  fled,  I  shunned  thy  very  touch, — 
It  cost  me  much,  0  God !  how  much  ! 
But  if  some  burning  tears  were  shed, 

Lady  !  I  let  them  freely  flow ; 
At  least,  they  left  unbreathed,  unsaid, 

A  worse  and  wilder  woe. 

But  now, — now  that  we  part  indeed, 

And  that  I  may  not  think  as  then, 
That  as  I  wish,  or  as  I  need, 

I  may  return  again, — 
Now  that  for  months,  perhaps  for  years — 
I  see  no  limit  in  my  fears — 
My  home  shall  be  some  distant  spot, 
Where  thou — where  even  thy  name  is  not, 
And  since  I  shall  not  see  the  frown, 
Such  wild,  mad  language  must  bring  down, 
Could  I — albeit  I  may  not  sue 

In  hope  to  bend  thy  steadfast  will — 
Could  I  have  breathed  this  word,  adieu, 

And  kept  my  secret  still  ? 

Doubtless  thou  know'st  the  Hebrew  story — 
The  tale's  with  me  a  favorite  one — 


MADELINE.  225 

How  Raphael  left  the  Courts  of  Glory, 

And  walked  with  Ju dab's  honored  Son ; 
And  how  the  twain  together  dwelt, 

And  how  they,  talked  upon  the  road, 
How  often  too  they  must  have  knelt 

As  equals  to  the  same  kind  God ; 
And  still  the  mortal  never  guessed, 
How  much  and  deeply  he  was  blessed, 
Till  when — the  Angel's  mission  done — 

The  spell  which  drew  him  earth  wards,  riven — 
The  lover  saved — the  maiden  won — 

He  plumed  again  his  wings  for  Heaven  ; 
0  Madeline !  as  unaware 
Thou  hast  been  followed  everywhere, 

And  girt  and  guarded  by  a  love, 
As  warm,  as  tender  in  its  care, 
As  pure,  ay,  powerful  in  prayer, 

As  any  saint  above  ! 
Like  the  bright  inmate  of  the  skies, 
It  only  looked  with  friendly  eyes, 
And  still  had  worn  the  illusive  guise, 

And  thus  at  least  been  half  concealed  ; 
But  at  this  parting,  painful  hour, 
It  spreads  its  wings,  unfolds  its  power, 

And  stands,  like  Raphael,  revealed. 

More,  Lady !  I  would  wish  to  speak, — 
But  it  were  vain,  and  words  are  weak, 
And  now  that  I  have  bared  my  breast, 
Perchance  thou  wilt  infer  the  rest. 
So,  so,  farewell !  I  need  not  say 
10* 


226  POEMS  OF  HENRY  TIMROD. 

I  look,  I  ask  for  no  reply, 
The  cold  and  scarcely  pitying  "  nay  " 

I  read  in  that  unmelted  eye; 
Yet  one  dear  favor,  let  m.e  pray ! 

Days,  months,  however  slow  to  me, 
Must  drag  at  last  their  length  away, 

And  I  return — if  not  to  thee — 
At  least  to  breathe  the  same  sweet  air 
That  woos  thy  lips  and  waves  thy  hair. 
Oh,  then  ! — these  daring  lines  forgot— 
Look,  speak,  as  thou  hadst  read  them  not. 
So,  Lady,  may  I  still  retain 
A  right  I  would  not  lose  again, 
For  all  that  gold  or  guilt  can  buy, 
Or  all  that  Heaven  itself  deny, 
A  right  such  love  may  justly  claim, 
Of  seeing  thee  in  friendship's  name. 
Give  me  but  this,  and  still  at  whiles, 
A  portion  of  thy  faintest  smiles, 

It  were  enough  to  bless ; 
I  may  not,  dare  not  ask  for  more 
Than  boon  so  rich,  and  yet  so  poor, 

But  I  should  die  with  less. 


TO  WHOM? 


TO  WHOM  ? 

Awake  upon  a  couch  of  pain, 

I  see  a  star  betwixt  the  trees  ; 
Across  yon  darkening  field  of  cane, 

Comes  slow  and  soft  the  evening  breeze. 
My  curtain's  folds  are  faintly  stirred ; 

And  moving  lightly  in  her  rest, 
I  hear  the  chirrup  of  a  bird, 

That  dreameth  in  some  neighboring  nest. 

Last  night  I  took  no  note  of  these — 

How  it  was  passed  I  scarce  can  say ; 
'Twas  not  in  prayers  to  Heaven  for  ease, 

'Twas  not  in  wishes  for  the  day. 
Impatient  tears,  and  passionate  sighs, 

Touched  as  with  fire  the  pulse  of  pain, — 
I  cursed,  and  cursed  the  wildering  eyes 

That  burned  this  fever  in  my  brain. 

Oh !  blessings  on  the  quiet  hour ! 

My  thoughts  in  calmer  current  flow  ; 
She  is  not  conscious  of  her  power, 

And  hath  no  knowledge  of  my  woe. 
Perhaps,  if  like  yon  peaceful  star, 

She  looked  upon  my  burning  brow, 
She  would  not  pity  from  afar, 

But  kiss  me  as  the  breeze  does  now. 


228  POEMS  OF  HENRT  TIMROD. 


TO  THEE. 

Draw  close  the  lattice  and  the  door ! 

Shut  out  the  very  stars  above ! 
No  other  eyes  than  mine  shall  pore 

Upon  this  thrilling  tale  of  love. 
As,  since  the  book  was  open  last, 

Along  its  dear  and  sacred  text 
No  other  eyes  than  thine  have  passed — 

Be  mine  the  eyes  that  trace  it  next ! 

Oh!  very  nobly  is  it  wrought, — 

This  web  of  love's  divinest  light, — 
But  not  to  feed  my  soul  with  thought, 

Hang  I  upon  the  book  to-night ; 
I  read  it  only  for  thy  sake, 

To  every  page  my  lips  I  press — 
The  very  leaves  appear  to  make 

A  silken  rustle  like  thy  dress. 

And  so,  as  each  blest  page  I  turn, 

I  seem,  with  many  a  secret  thrill, 
To  touch  a  soft  white  hand,  and  burn 

To  clasp  and  kiss  it  at  my  will. 
Oh  !  if  a  fancy  be  so  sweet 

These  shadowy  fingers  touching  mine — 
How  wildly  would  my  pulses  beat, 

If  they  could  feel  the  beat  of  thine ! 


STORM  AND  CALM.  229 


STOEM  AND  CALM. 

Sweet  are  these  kisses  of  the  South, 
As  dropped  from  woman's  rosiest  mouth, 
And  tenderer  are  those  azure  skies 
Than  this  world's  tenderest  pair  of  eyes! 

But  ah  !  beneath  such  influence 
Thought  is  too  often  lost  in  Sense ; 
And  Action,  faltering  as  we  thrill, 
Sinks  in  the  unnerved  arms  of  "Will. 

Awake,  thou  stormy  North,  and  blast 
The  subtle  spells  around  us  cast ;  , 
Beat  from  our  limbs  these  flowery  chains 
With  the  sharp  scourges  of  thy  rains  ! 

Bring  with  thee  from  thy  Polar  cave 
All  the  wild  songs  of  wind  and  wave, 
Of  toppling  berg  and  grinding  floe, 
And  the  dread  avalanche  of  snow  ! 

Wrap  us  in  Arctic  night  and  clouds ! 
Yell  like  a  fiend  amid  the  shrouds 
Of  some  slow-sinking  vessel,  when 
He  hears  the  shrieks  of  drowning  men  ! 

Blend  in  thy  mighty  voice  whatever 
Of  danger,  terror,  and  despair 
Thou  hast  encountered  in  thy  sweep 
Across  the  land  and  o'er  the  deep. 


230  POEMS  OF  HENRY  TIMROD. 

Pour  in  our  ears  all  notes  of  woe, 
That,  as  these  very  moments  now, 
Else  like  a  harsh  discordant  psalm, 
While  we  lie  here  in  tropic  calm. 

Sting  our  weak  hearts  with  bitter  shame, 
Bear  us  along  with  thee  like  flame ; 
And  prove  that  even  to  destroy 
More  God-like  may  be  than  to  toy 
And  rust  or  rot  in  idle  joy ! 


SONNET. 

Which  are  the  clouds,  and  which  the  mountains  ?   See, 

They  mix  and  melt  together !     Yon  blue  hill 

Looks  fleeting  as  the  vapors  which  distil 

Their  dews  upon  its  summit,  while  the  free 

And  far-off  clouds,  now  solid,  dark,  and  still, 

An  aspect  wear  of  calm  eternity. 

Each  seems  the  other,  as  our  fancies  will — 

The  cloud  a  mount,  the  mount  a  cloud,  and  we 

Gaze  doubtfully.     So  everywhere  on  earth, 

This  foothold  where  we  stand  with  slipping  feet, 

The  unsubstantial  and  substantial  meet, 

And  we  are  fooled  until  made  wise  by  Time. 

Is  not  the  obvious  lesson  something  worth, 

Lady  ?  or  have  I  wov'n  an  idle  rhyme  ? 


SONNET. 


SONNET. 

What  gossamer  lures  thee  now  ?     What  hope,  what 

name 

Is  on  thy  lips  ?     What  dreams  to  fruit  have  grown  ? 
Thou  who  hast  turned  one  Poet-heart  to  stone, 
Is  thine  yet  burning  with  its  seraph  flame  ? 
Let  me  give  back  a  warning  of  thine  own, 
That,  falling  from  thee  many  moons  ago, 
Sank  on  my  soul  like  the  prophetic  moan 
Of  some  young  Sibyl  shadowing  her  own  woe. 
The  words  are  thine,  and  will  not  do  thee  wrong, 
I  only  bind  their  solemn  charge  to  song. 
Thy  tread  is  on  a  quicksand — oh  !  be  wise ! 
Nor,  in  the  passionate  eagerness  of  youth, 
Mistake  thy  bosom-serpent's  glittering  eyes 
For  the  calm  lights  of  Reason  and  of  Truth. 


SONNET. 

I  thank  you,  kind  and  best  beloved  friend, 
With  the  same  thanks  one  murmurs  to  a  sister. 
When,  for  some  gentle  favor,  he  hath  kissed  her, 
Less  for  the  gifts  than  for  the  love  you  send, 
Less  for  the  flowers,  than  what  the  flowers  convey, 
If  I,  indeed,  divine  their  meaning  truly, 
And  not  unto  myself  ascribe,  unduly, 


232  POEMS  OF  HENRY  TIMROD. 

Things  which  you  neither  meant  nor  wished  to  say. 
Oh!  tell  me,  is  the  hope  then  all  misplaced  ? 
And  am  I  flattered  by  my  own  affection  ? 
But  in. your  beauteous  gift,  methought  I  traced 
Something  above,  a  short-lived  predilection, 
And  which,  for  that  I  know  no  dearer  name, 
I  designate  as  love,  without  love's  flame. 


SONNET. 

Are  these  wild  thoughts,  thus  fettered  in  my  rhymes, 

Indeed  the  product  of  my  heart  and  brain  ? 

How  strange  that  on  my  ear  the  rhythmic  strain 

Falls  like  faint  memories  of  far-off  times  ! 

When  did  I  feel  the  sorrow,  act  the  part, 

Which  I  have  striv'n  to  shadow  forth  in  song  ? 

In  what  dead  century  swept  that  mingled  throng 

Of  mighty  pains  and  pleasures  through  my  heart? 

Not  in  the  yesterdays  of  that  still  life 

Which  I  have  passed  so  free  and  far  from  strife, 

But  somewhere  in  this  weary  world  I  know, 

In  some  strange  land,  beneath  some  orient  clime, 

I  saw  or  shared  a  martyrdom  sublime, 

And  felt  a  deeper  grief  than  any  later  woe. 


14  DAY  USE 
IRETURN  TO  DESK  FROM  WHICH  BORROWED  i 

LOAN  DEPT. 

This  book  is  due  on  the  last  date  stamped  below,  or 

on  the  date  to  which  renewed. 
Renewed  books  are  subject  to  immediate  recall.         JbeloW. 


2196 


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General  Library 

University  of  California 

Berkeley 


I.C.  BERKELEY  UBRAR1ES 


CD31371M71 


